


Earned Convalescence

by destielpasta, mtothedestiel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Aristocracy, Caretaking, Chance Meetings, Eventual Smut, Everybody Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fever, Geographical Isolation, Happy Ending, Historical, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Impropriety, Injury, Intimacy, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Music, Mutual Pining, POV Eliot Waugh, Period-Typical Homophobia, Propriety, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Recovery, Regency Romance, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Servants, Sexual Tension, Shyness, Strangers to Lovers, as a treat, dyslexic Eliot Waugh, just a little, mutual affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28894866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: In Regency England, Eliot Waugh’s tour of the countryside is interrupted by a broken ankle and an extended stay at the home of the reclusive (handsome, endearing, reserved) Viscount Fillory, Lord Quentin Coldwater. Eliot’s fast life of easy pleasures in society is on pause, but his stay in the country with the mysterious Lord Coldwater may prove healing in more ways then one. Join us for an intimate convalescence.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 64
Kudos: 195





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Welcome to a new historical collaboration from destielpasta and myself. This project is the result of our christmas tradition of watching a lot of Regency movies and miniseries, and our mutual love for the queer historical romance novels of KJ Charles (if you've never read her work, we highly recommend!). This fic will be posted in 3 parts, and clock in at ~20k. So please enjoy a brief sojourn into the realm of fated meetings, velvet coats, and the humble glories of mutual affection with a like minded soul. Comments will be carefully folded up and tucked into the pages of our correspondence journal for safekeeping!
> 
> Soft warning in this chapter for non-explicit descriptions of a broken bone, and injury related illness.

So begins a set of events that would alter the life of Eliot Waugh forever. 

Eliot didn’t know this. All he knew was the jolt of his horse’s gait as he wound through a quiet wood just before dusk. He knew only the flush of his cheeks and the ache in his hand, the split skin of his knuckles dripping blood onto his otherwise pristine cuffs. 

Eliot sniffed. It was so hard to remove blood from linen, and this was one of his finer shirts. Ah well. There was little he could do about it. At least he’d worn the merlot velvet, and thus his dinner jacket would not bear the stains of his sparked temper.

The sun sat low in the sky, hovering where heaven met earth. Low enough that it sought to blind him through the thinning treeline. It wouldn’t be an issue if this were his family’s land, or Margo’s, but he wasn’t familiar with the turn of the path.

Eliot squinted at the harsh dappled light. It had been a novel evening, anyway. His visit to a distant cousin with Bambi had been cut short by a glib comment about said Bambi’s honor and a hastily thrown fist. Lady Margo and her husband were fit to remain until morning, but their hosts were less than impressed by Eliot’s rustic display of gallantry. He’d been shown the door and given directions to the nearest inn, without invitation to return. Such was the life of an adventurous gentleman outside the social season. 

Eliot slackened the reigns and looked around, nibbling contemplatively on his bottom lip. 

He supposed he might be a bit lost. He must be somewhere on the edge of the seat of Fillory, the mysterious viscounty that neighbored his cousin’s estate, but he’d expected to come upon the village between them by now. He must have taken a wrong turn in the strange light.

Eliot turned just to see a spark alight in a faraway bush, followed by the boom of a shotgun. His horse bucked, rearing back enough to pitch Eliot from his seat. His right foot tangled in the stirrup and he cried out as his fall was interrupted by a jerk and a sickening  _ crack _ . 

“Fuck!”

He hit the ground with a thump as the horse shook him free and galloped away. Eliot was left bumped and bruised on the cold ground, dampness creeping through his thin evening breeches like the touch of the grave. His ankle throbbed sharply and he moaned in pain.

“Damn–'' He braced one hand against the ground and the other against a tree, trying to right himself. A venture most unwise, as was proven by the pain that lanced up his leg as soon as he attempted putting weight on it. His vision whited out and he slipped, landing right back in the dirt out of breath. Miraculously, his hat still sat atop his head. He took it in hand and threw it at a neighboring tree, quickly lamenting the crumpled silk. 

“I suppose I deserve this.”

The forest didn’t dignify him with an answer. Eliot sighed, succumbing to his fate. 

Just typical. One visits his boorish cousin in the name of his excellent wine cellar and this is how one is repaid: alone, wounded, and left for dead in a strange wood with the cold of night quickly falling. He opened his mouth to wax poetic about his current situation to an ever-absent and uncaring god when there was a rustle beside him. 

“I say, are you alright?”

Eliot froze. The voice had come from behind the tree that was now Eliot’s hearth and home, and he tried again to stand, to identify if this newcomer was friend or foe, but he fell again, seeing stars. 

“Dear God— don’t move! Fairweather, fetch help!”

Hot tears streamed down Eliot’s face as the pain grew to a white-hot blaze. The stranger ran through the leaves, stooping over him. His touch was gentle, his face shrouded by the darkness and a curtain of long-ish hair. Eliot cared not if this man meant him harm, if only something would put him out of this misery. Was this his punishment? To die amongst the damp and crude nature he had always despised so? Was this the hellfire that his father promised awaited him in retribution for his sins? 

“I won’t leave you, just stay still, sir–”

Eliot grunted, clutching at his leg as if he could put it to rights, and there was a rattling—a carriage?—and then the bray of a horse and shouts of men as their footsteps crunched the leaves underfoot. 

“That ankle doesn’t look good, my lord. If you hadn’t found him–”

“I did find him, shall we make haste?”

Eliot sobbed his agreement, quickly changing his tune when two men crouched over him to lift him, sending another lance of pain down his leg. He was laid on something hard, and then there was an array of grunts as he was lifted onto what appeared in the dark to be the bed of a wagon. 

“Drive!” the now familiar voice called. 

With the first jolt of the wagon, Eliot gasped. As it continued to rattle down the road, his mind clouded, the pain receding along with his lucidity. He knew only a light pressure on his upper arm, the feathered touch a thumb stroking over the wool of his jacket, before all was blackness. 

* * *

Eliot woke in a state of discomfort, cracking open dry and sandy eyes to survey room in which he found himself. There were candles on a table beside him, but they were long extinguished judging by the hardened pool of wax. Instead, morning sunlight poured through the windows in streaks from between heavy drapes. Eliot had been laid upon a chintz chaise, his body covered in a heavy wool blanket of more practical make. Room, furniture, and blanket were all strange to him. This wasn’t his cousin’s estate. 

All at once he remembered the forest. He’d fallen from his horse, and with a wince he remembered the sickening crack of his ankle. Eliot threw off the blanket and levered himself up on one elbow to find that his breeches (such a  _ pity)  _ had been partially cut away to reveal his battered and bruised leg, now splinted straight. The searing pain from before was duller, and licking his lips he realized someone must have given him spirits, the aftertaste still lingering sickly sweet upon his tongue. He had been removed of his coat and neck cloth, which had no doubt been ruined by mud besides. Eliot spared more than a thought of mourning for the merlot velvet. Such a jacket couldn’t be replicated, even by his loyal tailor. 

A sudden shift brought Eliot’s attention back to the room before him. 

“Who’s there?”

Something metallic clanged, and a young girl came into his view, holding a scuttle in one hand and her skirts in another. She bobbed a wobbly curtsy.

“Begging your pardon, sir, I was just stoking the fire.” She scurried for the door with a swish of her apron. “I’ll let the master know you’re awake at once!”

“Wait.” Eliot held out a hand. “Pray tell me first: where am I?” 

The maid turned. “This is Whitespire House, sir, in Fillory.” 

She bobbed again and left with a swish, leaving Eliot alone and even more confused than before. Someone must have retrieved him from the jaws of death, that much was certain, but who? He hadn’t been far from town, and surely all that could be expected from a good samaritan would be a ride to the nearest inn and a few coins for a doctor. Who might have discovered Eliot who would have the authority to remove him to the home of the most reclusive nobleman in England? 

He swallowed, wishing for water, and attempted to sit up. His leg only protested slightly, and he took a look around his current home. He was in some kind of parlor or drawing room, the walls heavily ornamented with filigree and mouldings. Baroque origin, perhaps. The chaise he laid upon was fine but old, the grapevine chintz slightly threadbare and wanting for repair. A jolly fire roared from the grate, as the maid said, but the hearth was full of ash, as if it hadn’t been cleaned in a while. 

He flopped back against his pillows, thinking of his Bambi. Margo would be furious when he failed to meet her at the inn, fearing that Eliot had taken off in anger and abandoned their plan. When she found out that he was laid up with what was clearly a broken leg, she would be guilty for not seeking him out. Eliot hated to cause her such strife. 

Eliot hadn’t noticed the door quietly opening. 

“You’re awake.” The voice that met Eliot’s ears was a gentle baritone. Soft, as though it were conservatively used. “What a relief.” 

A young man stood in the doorway, perhaps a bit younger than Eliot’s own nine and twenty years. He was obviously a gentleman. Even in the dim light the outer hall Eliot could say as much. It was in his carriage and posture, and the sound of fine leather shoes on hardwood as he stepped further into the bright room. 

“When you slept through setting the bone we feared you struck your head in your fall.” The gentleman looked anywhere but at Eliot, bouncing nervously on his heels. “I’m glad to find you well. Um, relatively speaking, that is.” 

This could only be the master of the house, but he wasn’t what Eliot had expected based on his cousin’s gossip. The Viscount Fillory was a strange recluse, he had been warned. An unsociable shut in. Eliot had expected an old man, or perhaps some kind of Quasimodo figure unfit for display in the ton. This was a young man in good health, at least to Eliot’s eye. He was handsome, even, and well dressed in shades of blue and gray. His coat was a year or two out of style but meticulously kept so that it looked new. It sat well with his brown eyes and a complexion that was fair but obviously no stranger to a healthy walk outdoors. This was all framed by a curtain of lustrous brown hair that brushed the gentleman’s shoulders. It must have been a source of some vanity. It certainly would be if Eliot were the one wearing it.

But no, this couldn’t be the hermit rumored to skulk this manor’s ancient halls, but a reserved man with a nervous manner and sensitive eyes. Quite lovely sensitive eyes, if Eliot were to comment upon them. Perhaps the house had been let, and the news was not yet spread to neighboring estates. 

“I’m more than glad of my present state, considering the alternative.” Eliot tried to sit up again, and was duly reprimanded by a sharp throb in his ankle when he moved too quickly. “On that matter I must express my gratitude for your hospitality, mister...”

The man straightened, tucking his hair behind his ears. Oh no. That didn’t flatter him at all. 

“Coldwater.” He offered Eliot a belated bow. “Forgive me, I ought to have introduced myself at once.” 

“It’s nothing, sir. After such an extraordinary meeting I can hardly recall propriety.” Then Eliot realized: “Coldwater? You aren’t Lord  _ Quentin _ Coldwater, the Viscount Fillory?” 

“Ah, yes. That would be me.” Lord Coldwater said this as if in apology, a wry twist to his handsome features. “I’m sorry not to give a more eccentric appearance, as the tales about me have led you to expect.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Your appearance is anything but disappointing.” Lord Coldwater glanced up, and Eliot caught the innuendo in his words.  _ Ease him in gently, Waugh. _ “On account of your timely rescue, I mean.” 

“Of course.” Was that a twinkle in the viscount’s eye? Intriguing. “It was fortunate that I was on an errand with my steward and heard your horse’s distress.” Lord Coldwater tucked his hands behind his back. “But you have me at a disadvantage, for you know my name but I remain ignorant of yours. You’re a gentleman, that is clear, but not one of my neighbors and my doctor couldn’t place your face among his patients in town.” 

“If I’m a gentleman, it is by income and not by birth. My name is Eliot. Waugh.” 

Lord Coldwater’s brow furrowed. “I know the name.”

“It’s often printed on crates and barrels. My family is in shipping.” 

The viscount’s eyes lit up. He took a seat in the armchair across from Eliot. “Oh yes! I order many of my American novels through your catalogue.” 

“The catalogue is hardly mine, nor the company,” Eliot demurred. “That would be my brother’s purview. As fourth son my only duties are to live flippantly and prove a merchant’s get can waste coin as well as an aristocrat’s.” 

Usually, Eliot’s self-deprecating remarks were met with laughter, but Lord Coldwater tilted his chin, as if he were considering Eliot’s words carefully. Eliot couldn’t help but notice that Lord Coldwater had a very thoughtful countenance, particularly his mouth. 

“Anyway,” Eliot dragged his eyes away, “In pursuit of that end I’ve been enjoying a country tour with a friend. I was until recently a guest of your neighbor Baron McCormick. He’s my very distant cousin.” 

“Ah. I’m afraid I’m not intimately acquainted with the baron.” 

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “By choice?” 

“I couldn’t say.” 

Again, Eliot suspected a twinkle in Lord Coldwater’s eye. 

“I’m relieved that you don’t find him a particular friend, as I insulted him greatly last night.” His knuckles were tight and sore, wrapped in a bandage since the knuckles had split. Eliot hoped Lord Coldwater assumed the injury to his hand had been by his fall. “Hence my evening departure.” 

Lord Coldwater was fascinated. “Mr. Waugh, I gather that you lead an interesting life.” 

“Perhaps. I daresay I could do with a little less interest.” A birdsong trilled beyond the thickly glazed window, and Eliot was reminded of the time. “Anyways, I’m sure I’ve caused you enough trouble. If you’d allow me the services of a messenger, I’ll have a carriage sent for at once.”

Lord Coldwater frowned. “That would be unwise. The doctor says you can’t be moved until your ankle is at least part-way healed.”

Eliot clicked his tongue against his teeth. The lightness in him brought about by Lord Coldwater’s good looks was dimming with each passing moment. “Did the good doctor give you a timeline?”

“He couldn’t be certain...Pickwick is the country doctor, never the most confident—not that he isn’t capable—”

Eliot cleared his throat, his smile polite but prodding. 

“Your convalescence could take at least six weeks. You must stay here until then, of course,” Lord Coldwater told the drapes and the upper corner of Eliot’s shoulder, religiously avoiding Eliot’s gaze. “This room can be for your use until the doctor deems you safe to move.”

Eliot shifted, and tight pain shot up his splinted leg. “Doctor knows best, as my mother always said. But I couldn’t intrude on your hospitality for that long. I realize your estate is remote, but I’m sure I could make arrangements.” 

Lord Coldwater blinked. “It isn’t about the distance. I don’t wish to have your paralysis on my conscience should we attempt to move you against the doctor’s recommendation.”

Eliot’s heart sank. Margo was already cross with him, she would be downright furious that Eliot would miss the rest of their tour laid up on a chaise in a dressing gown. Speaking of, was anyone going to offer him more comfortable clothes than the ragged remains of his trousers and formal shirt?

Feeling quite prickly all of the sudden, Eliot still managed a gracious smile.

“I won’t protest again, not with the opportunity to be infirmed in such a well-appointed space.” Eliot tried not to let his eyes linger on the faded wallpaper and overall shabbiness around him. 

Lord Coldwater looked around the room as if noticing its existence for the first time. “Ah. I thank you, though I can’t take credit. My father had an eye for interiors I don’t share.”

“I suppose sons need not share all their father’s talents.”

Lord Coldwater inclined his head politely, a small sadness deepening his frown. They fell silent. Eliot resented greatly the pain in his ankle for robbing him of his usually sparkling gift of conversation. Evidently he’d said something out of turn. Better to make an aim for humor rather than letting the silence settle for too long.

“Well, Lord Coldwater, you have me, here, flat on my back.” Eliot tucked his good arm behind his head, looking to lighten the mood. “Whatever do you intend on doing with me?”

Lord Coldwater pursed his lips, making a stern and lordly appearance, but Eliot noted the flush that betrayed him even with the height of his collar. Perhaps this  _ could  _ be fun. 

Before he could spare a further thought, a door slammed somewhere in the manor. 

“Eliot!”

The familiar wail was followed by a protesting voice in the hallway, no doubt Lord Coldwater’s distraught footman. Eliot spared him a moment of pity. Nothing could prepare such a genteel household for the hurricane that approached. 

The door to the drawing room flew open, and in came the treasure of Eliot’s heart. 

“You absolute  _ cad,  _ you had me worried sick!”

Margo Hoberman stood before them in all looking a bit feral despite her best carriage dress. The hem of her amber pelisse was dotted with sprays of mud and a few flyaway curls had escaped her turban, betraying her haste to arrive at Eliot’s bedside. 

“Bambi, it’s so wonderful to hear your voice.”

“You’ll be hearing a lot more from me, giving us such a fright, and after that scene at the baron’s. And to see you like this–” Margo’s reticule swung wildly as she gestured at his ankle, her frown wobbling almost imperceptibly. Only Eliot could see through the bravado of Margo’s anger to the fear and relief mixed in her gaze. “I should have killed you myself when I had the chance.”

“Now, now, Bambi, such strong words for a stranger’s home, don’t you think? And in your condition.”

Margo looked a second from striking or kissing Eliot both when they were joined by Mr. Hoberman, who looked to be cheerful as usual. His casual buckskins bore slightly more mud than his wife’s, which Eliot imagined was inflicted attempting to save Margo’s expensive wardrobe from her own haste.

Joshua removed his hat and tucked it under his elbow. “Waugh, good to see you. We were beginning to worry.”

“Not at all, Hoberman. I may only be paralyzed for life.” 

Joshua laughed. “You seem to be in fine spirits, anyway. To whom should we pay our respects, before my dear Mrs. Hoberman threatens any more servants?”

Lord Coldwater had stood in the sudden presence of a lady, of course, but did seem to be attempting to make himself invisible, which propriety would not allow. 

“Lord Coldwater, may I introduce my dearest friends, Mr. and Mrs. Hoberman? Margo, this is Lord Quentin Coldwater, who so  _ heroically  _ pulled me and my broken ankle from a patch of brambles.” 

Margo’s mouth closed with an audible click. “I meant no offense, my lord. Thank you for caring for my very clumsy friend.”

“Please don’t apologize. Your concern for your friend does you credit, Mrs. Hoberman.” Lord Coldwater offered her and Joshua a bow, which they returned with the habit of generations of good breeding. “It’s a clean break, and he’s more than welcome to convalesce here. I hope we’ve taken good care of him.”

Eliot nodded along with Lord Coldwater’s words. “I’m well enough, Bambi, no need to make a scene. But there’s no moving me for a while, so I must apologize about the rest of our tour.”

Margo took a seat on the armchair near Eliot without prompting. “As if I care about that.”

Joshua and Eliot shared a look. 

“I’ve always wondered about the architecture of this manor,” Joshua said, his eternally jovial self. He turned to Lord Coldwater “Could I impose on you to show me some of your favorite features?”

Lord Coldwater perked up, as if relieved to have a task. “It would be my pleasure.”

Eliot spared them a smile as they left. Oh Joshua. He knew just when Eliot and Margo needed time alone. 

Margo untied her bonnet, plopping it on the side table. “Well, I daresay your fate is not as dire as I feared.” 

Eliot pouted. “Bambi, please. I may never walk again.” 

Margo rolled her eyes. “You’ll barely have a limp, and an excuse to carry some horrendously grandiose cane like you’ve always wanted.” 

His Bambi knew him so well. 

“Tell me honestly, Eliot: do you need to be rescued? I won’t have you hobbled on the word of some country nobleman if your health would be better served in London.” 

Eliot pressed Margo’s gloved hand to his lips. “Your affection warms my heart, but no. I think I’m being guided by serendipity. Lord Coldwater has…”

How did one put it in a stranger’s drawing room?

Margo quirked an eyebrow. “Potential?”

Eliot grinned. “Potential. A bit shy, but after the debacle at cousin Michael’s I should be well served with some intimate quiet.” 

“And with some avoidance of the gossip mill,” Margo agreed. “Let Michael get his grousing done and you enjoy your convalescence with the handsome viscount. You do live a charmed life.” 

“Most charmed when I can be at your side, Bambi. But I order you to enjoy the remainder of the trip. I shan’t be languishing here in despair, and rushing back to London will only stir unkind rumors.” 

Margo pursed her lips, but she knew Eliot was right. A faux-pas as dramatic as a fist to a cousin’s jaw would need time to recede from the gossip that no doubt already made its way towards London’s post-season parlor dwellers. Time healed all wounds, and Eliot would be welcomed back into civilized company by Christmas.

Margo took his hand, running a finger over the bandages that covered his knuckles. 

“Am I supposed to feel guilty that I put you in this situation?” Margo’s words were combative, but Eliot saw through them. 

“Goodness no, Bambi. The topic of your wifely fidelity was merely an excuse to lay waste to my cousin’s distasteful visage. You did  _ me  _ a favor, if truth be told.”

Margo nodded, threading their fingers together. “If you’re sure…” She smiled, a little of her old spark returning. “You should have seen Michael’s face after you left. Absolutely  _ beet _ red.”

Eliot was seized with glee. “It’s as if my birthday came early. Tell me all.”

They passed the morning in conversation, all of Eliot’s foolishness forgiven, by Margo at least. Apparently, Michael hadn’t taken well to being physically chastised for his misbehavior and had banished the entire party to their bedrooms. Eliot delighted in the tale of his tantrum. His Bambi was a vicious storyteller, and her wicked smile a cure for all manner of ills. 

Tea and provisions were brought in by the footman who could only have come on Lord Coldwater’s orders. Eliot smiled to think that the viscount was looking out for him even while burdened with unexpected company. He felt flushed and happy. Quite flushed, actually. Still, there was a bit of a chill that sent a shiver down his limbs. Perhaps the Hoberman’s arrival had let in a draft 

Soon, too soon, it was time for Margo and Joshua to take their leave. Margo squeezed his hand as Joshua returned with Lord Coldwater in tow. “I’ll arrange to have your things sent from the baron’s. You shan’t languish here without any fashion, even if only your dressing gowns for now.”

“You read my mind.” Eliot pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “But you must be getting on. I wouldn’t want you to be traveling in the dark.”

“Yes, I might trip and break my ankle.” She glanced at Lord Coldwater. “There’s no possible advantage to that.”

Joshua laughed. “Come now, darling, it’s time for us to leave the patient in peace.”

With another kiss and a promise to write, Margo was gone, leaving Eliot alone once more with Lord Coldwater. 

“Are you hungry?” Lord Coldwater fidgeted. He had donned a pair of leather boots, as if he and Joshua had taken a turn around the grounds. “I could have something more substantial brought in, if you would prefer–”

Eliot didn’t have much of an appetite, actually. If anything he felt a bit peaked, with a slight tremble to his limbs that he attributed to too much sugar in his tea. “I’m alright, my lord. But the scones were much appreciated. Pass my compliments on to your cook.” 

“I shall.”

A moment passed. Eliot let his gaze rest upon the seat Lord Coldwater had vacated upon Margo’s arrival, hoping that was encouragement enough. Victory bloomed in his chest when the viscount took his seat next to Eliot once more. 

“The doctor will be by again soon, to see how you’re faring. Are you in much pain?”

“Very little.” Eliot’s ankle ached, but it was far outweighed by lethargy. “Your doctor must know his trade very well.”

“Oh yes.” A look resembling nausea passed over Lord Coldwater’s face. “I was glad you lost consciousness for the bone setting, however. Pickwick is good, but no man should have to endure such pain.”

“I agree, my lord.” Eliot laughed uneasily. He had been in a low state the evening before, broken ankle besides the point. “I suppose I should be in a huff that I couldn’t prove my manliness with a strip of leather between my teeth as the doctor did his work.”

Lord Coldwater laughed. “My lips are sealed, sir.”

Eliot laughed as well, but found that his throat was rather dry and scratchy. Too much conversation. Lord Coldwater refilled his teacup, and while the brew had gone lukewarm Eliot sipped it gratefully. 

“I’m sorry I can’t offer much in the way of amusement.” Lord Coldwater returned Eliot’s cup to the tray when he was finished and rang the bell for the footman. “I spend much of my time visiting my tenants, or reading. It’s a quiet house. As someone from London I’m sure you’re used to more entertainment.”

“London has its charms, to be sure, but I don’t loathe the countryside. Especially in good company.”

Lord Coldwater blushed, brushing his hands over his trousers. “Well, there’s the library, if you’re so inclined. I could have some books brought in.”

The thought of pretending to read made Eliot nauseous. “That’s sounds,” Eliot swallowed, parched again despite plenty of fluids, “That sounds lovely, you shall have to show me, tomorrow perhaps—“ Eliot closed his eyes, a wave of achiness passing over him. 

“Mr. Waugh? Are you feeling unwell?” 

Eliot shook his head, his eyes falling shut. “I’m quite well, my lord. Only, I might need an hour’s rest. Or two. Reknitting a bone is more labor than I might have anticipated.”

Lord Coldwater pressed a fine square hand to Eliot’s forehead. 

“You’re burning up. You should have said something earlier!” 

Eliot sniffed. “It’s only the excitement from seeing my dear friends. I’ll be right soon enough.” 

The surety of Eliot’s words was broken by the chatter of his teeth. He felt over-warm and cold all at once, his lips tacky. 

With a look of mild alarm, Lord Coldwater rang the bell again. The housekeeper appeared, and vanished just as quickly on Lord Coldwater’s orders. She returned in a few minutes with a pile of blankets and a steaming kettle. By that time Eliot was shaking from chills that wouldn’t abate. 

“Drink this, sir.” The older woman tipped a hot and bitter brew down his throat while Lord Coldwater looked on, clearly worried. Eliot wanted to reassure him but the taste of willowbark and a rising headache stole his charm, and he succumbed to an afternoon of feverish sleep instead. 

The next several days dashed Eliot’s hopes for an intimate convalescence. They were in fact shivering, sweaty, and miserable as his fever refused to leave him. He was the victim of restless sleep, made worse by the constant aching throb of his ankle. All around he was unpleasant company, and when he shared Lord Coldwater’s presence his host was grim faced with the local doctor in tow. 

“I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done but keep comfortable and cool while we wait for the fever to pass.” The doctor finished listening to Eliot’s heart with a curious instrument that evening. Eliot felt even worse with nightfall approaching. “I’ll leave cherry bark for the cook to fashion into tea, for the pain in your ankle. Otherwise, rest is the only medicine.”

Eliot thanked the doctor, trying not to pout. He’d be given a faded but warm dressing gown to wear, one of the viscount’s own, and as many pillows as were present in the manor. Lord Coldwater sent for more whenever Eliot’s chaise looked less than plush. 

“Truly, I wish you wouldn’t fuss.” There wasn’t any fire behind Eliot’s protests as the viscount plumped his pillows. He was spoiled enough to enjoy such tenderness in his infirmed state. “The doctor was clear in his hopes that the fever would pass.”

“I have all the confidence in your strength.” Lord Coldwater poured him a cup of tea, helping Eliot take hold of it with his shaking fingers. It was cool enough to drink straight away, the warmth pleasant instead of burning. “My housekeeper wishes she could tend to you herself, but I already demand enough of her aging nerves by keeping my house in such a shuttered state.You can imagine the dust.”

The next day was worse, and Eliot was unable to sit up on the chaise, let alone hold his own cup. He shivered his way through the morning, sipping on some hot and bitter broth that must have been the medicine left by the doctor. Lord Coldwater himself held the cup to his lips, and in his frazzled state Eliot couldn’t even enjoy such an indulgence.

His dreams were blurred, like the air on a particularly humid day. Sometimes it felt as if he were in his childhood bedroom, sequestered to keep away the bullying of his brothers. He dreamt of Margo, her laugh unending and her smile cunning, but she only spoke to tell him he was wasting his time being ill. He tried to protest, to say it wasn’t his fault, but the dream never lasted. Then he was back in the cozy drawing room, sweating through his chills as the lovely viscount fussed over him. 

He woke on the third day with a clearer head, but his fever still burned, turning his muscles to one aching mass. His ankle throbbed and swelled with infection, elevated on several pillows, indicating the doctor had perhaps visited again while he slept. It was evening again, and his mouth was drier than the pits of hell. 

“Is there water?” he croaked. 

There was a rustle, a thump that sounded like the closing of a book, and then Lord Coldwater was beside him. He cradled Eliot’s head and helped him drink from a glass of cool water. It did little to soothe the dry parchment of his throat, but Eliot settled back into the cushions somewhat more comfortable. Lord Coldwater pressed his hand to Eliot’s brow once more, and Eliot was weak enough to let his eyes flutter shut at the tender sensation.

“Still feverish, but it doesn’t appear worse.” The warmth of Lord Coldwater’s hand disappeared. “Perhaps this will help.”

Eliot sighed as Lord Coldwater pressed a cool compress to his brow. He felt like a candle left too long burning, finally finding relief. 

“That’s good.” Eliot mourned his once witty discourse. “Thank you, my lord.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

Time passed, and they sat in silence. Eliot could only mark time when Lord Coldwater removed the cloth and re-wet it. It reminded him of a time when he took ill with a fever as a boy, when his mother had sat vigil by his bedside and tended to him herself. Eliot’s father had been away on business and his brothers at school. He had almost been glad for the fever, to have his mother all to himself. 

Lord Coldwater was just as comforting, even though the touch differed from Euphemia Waugh. 

“If I die...” Eliot paused. The cool compress on his forehead was a distracting balm. “If I die, Lord Coldwater, I trust you to notify Mrs. Hoberman. She will be very distressed, and appear to be angry with you, but it is only because she hurts so deeply. Don’t let your guard down, she has a mean right hook.”

“I’ll have my shield at the ready. I believe we have one from the Roman occupation lying around somewhere.” Lord Coldwater’s voice was light with humor. Not appropriate at all for Eliot’s deathbed. “And what of your family? Should I notify them of your demise as well?”

Eliot swallowed against the lump in his throat. “You might write to them, but I doubt they would concern themselves with something so trivial as my death.”

Eliot needn’t open his eyes to see Lord Coldwater’s discomfort. The cold compress disappeared for a moment, followed by the sound of water being wrung from cloth before it settled on Eliot’s brow once more. 

“You must be mistaken, Mr. Waugh.”

There was no real fire in the protest, and Eliot had the idea that Lord Coldwater wasn’t wholly unfamiliar with complicated family relations. 

“At any rate, there’s someone who would be very disappointed, should you succumb to fever.”

Eliot opened his eyes. Lord Coldwater was closer than before, leaning against the arm of the chaise where Eliot rested his head. He’d forgone his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and his chestnut hair fell delicately in front of his eyes. Eliot thought it would be very soft to touch.

“And who might that be, my lord?”

Lord Coldwater adjusted the cloth on Eliot’s brow, sitting back in his seat. 

“My cook, of course. She’s in her glory with all a manner of restorative recipes to unearth. Usually it’s just a tray for me and an early bedtime. My servants have never known such rousing productivity.”

Eliot laughed, relaxing back into the cushions. Lord Coldwater pulled Eliot’s shirt collar away to keep it from the path of a water droplet running down Eliot’s neck. Eliot shivered at the brush of Lord Coldwater’s fingers against his bare skin. He could have sworn the viscount’s touch lingered, along with his gaze, on the hollow of Eliot’s throat. 

“Has anyone praised your kindness as of late? I would like to, if others have been lacking in their flattery.”

Lord Coldwater had very pretty eyes, particularly when Eliot made him smile and they crinkled in the corners. “I only do what any good Christian would do.”

“A good Christian would leave me in the care of servants and carry on with their own business.” Eliot felt less poorly in Lord Coldwater’s company, or at least his mind had tricked him into thinking so. It was rather like approaching the end of a night of drinking. A headache threatened, but mostly he felt warm and loose and free with his tongue. “Nor would a good Christian look at me as you do.” 

Perhaps a bit  _ too _ free. Eliot felt a shift as soon as the words left his lips. An invisible line, crossed without a thought spared for its existence. 

Lord Coldwater removed his hand promptly from Eliot’s neck, though his expression was only concerned, not angry. “You’re feeling unwell, sir. You know not what you say.”

Eliot turned his gaze toward the ceiling. “I suppose my mind is a bit addled. My apologies.”

“There’s no need.” Lord Coldwater tucked Eliot’s blankets back up to his shoulders, and stood. “It’s late. You should sleep.”

Eliot nodded, eyes averted as Lord Coldwater settled back in his chair across the room. In his fevered state Eliot’s thoughts couldn’t dwell on the slip of his tongue for long. His mind wandered, and his eyes wandered as well over the form of Lord Coldwater. The man had lovely calves. And he had not reacted  _ so _ badly to Eliot’s inelegant advance, relatively speaking, had he? It was actually rather gallant, when looked at from a certain angle. Here was Eliot bedridden, injured,  _ vulnerable _ even, and the viscount had demurred despite his obvious interest. 

Eliot’s last musings before the relief of sleep was that he hoped his illness gave his cheeks a fashionable flush, and that Lord Coldwater had noticed. 

Eliot awoke the next morning with only a vague recollection of his words the day before, but with the certain feeling that they had been quite silly, and that Lord Coldwater had been kind. Eliot never could be trusted with an excess of drink, and clearly neither could he be trusted with a fever. In the care of a less compassionate viscount Eliot might have put himself in the worst kind of danger. 

“...  _ the most necessary sermon one can give for our new century is to stay at home _ ...”

But here the viscount was. Eliot’s eyes fluttered open to the sight of Lord Coldwater seated by his side, his hands—again: fine, sturdy things—cradling a slim leather book. He read aloud, filling the quiet, morning-lit room with a comforting murmur. 

“ _ Fixlein opened the box, gingerly, with great care, to find the exact year of his birth, cold dread dripping down his spine.” _

Lord Coldwater paused to turn the page. Eliot took the moment to make his wakefulness known. 

“You have a fine reading voice, my lord.” Eliot regretted his words, for they stopped Lord Coldwater’s. 

“Oh—I hope my presence hasn’t disturbed you. I had a mind to read and I saw that your sleep was restless. I thought—” Lord Coldwater tucked a tendril of hair behind his ear. It was tied back this morning in a becoming half-plait. “—that is, if I was ill as a boy, I found my father reading to me a great comfort.” 

“It was a pleasant way to greet the morning,” Eliot assured him. “The most peaceful I’ve enjoyed since this awful fever.” 

Eliot would never be an adept reader. The letters swam before his eyes when scanning all but the largest and most legible text. Still, he loved  _ stories _ , and enjoyed a fine poem as much as any learned gentleman. Margo often read aloud to him, and they spent many a morning together devouring the latest novel. 

“...you could continue, if you wanted.”

Lord Coldwater placed a bookmark between the pages, looking shy. “Perhaps we should save the rest for another day.”

Eliot yawned, stretching his good leg. Lord Coldwater’s voice had put him in a dream-like state. “I‘d love to hear more sometime, if you’re willing. What’s it called?” 

“ _ The Life of Quintus Fixlein  _ by Jean Paul _.  _ It’s my favorite.”

“I’ve never heard of it before. Is it new?”

“Not at all. The author isn’t well known in England. I had to translate it on my own from the original German– clumsily, I might add,” Lord Coldwater added, as if mortified to appear boastful. 

“I’m sure that was an enjoyable diversion, my lord. A weekend project, perhaps?”

Lord Coldwater understood his cheek, laughing and settling back in his seat. “A little more than that, but yes. I did enjoy it.” Lord Coldwater set the book down on the side table. “I’m afraid there isn’t much plot. Many think that his writing is indecipherable.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I agree. But I do favor Jean Paul’s position on humanity.”

“Which is?”

“That men are inherently good humored, kind creatures.”

“I wouldn’t have immediately taken you for an optimist, my lord.”

“I am, hopelessly.” Lord Coldwater’s smile was small, private, and touched by a beautiful melancholy. 

“Then I shall think of it only as an admirable quality.” 

A footman brought them lunch, and another homemade broth from the cook, this one smelling strongly of aromatic vegetables. With his stomach tied up in knots still from the fever, it was Eliot’s only hope of sustenance. 

The footman took his leave with a bow to Lord Coldwater and a pinched nod directed vaguely in Eliot’s direction. It was nothing Eliot wasn’t accustomed to; often servants were more openly snobbish than their genteel masters. No doubt they thought of Eliot as little more than an upstart tradesman. Which he was, in all truth. He was grateful the cook didn’t believe serving him beneath her. 

Lord Coldwater held the cup to his lips, and the warm broth temporarily soothed Eliot’s parched throat.

“Surely a viscount need not spoon broth to his own guests.” Pride made Eliot say it, but he had his doubts whether he would be able to hold the cup with his shaking hands. 

Lord Coldwater shrugged. “Perhaps, but my housekeeper is already stretched far too thin, and such tasks are beneath my valet’s dignity. I suppose it could be left to the scullery, but then you would only receive your meals once a day, and before the sun rose.” 

“That would be a great detriment to my recovery, I’m sure.” 

“So here we are.” 

“Your point is well taken.” 

Eliot drifted his way through the remainder of the broth before a full belly called him back to sleep. As he faded, a familiar wrist pressed his brow. 

“Still warm, but it’s waning. You will yet live, Mr. Waugh, and thank God for that.” 

Eliot slept fitfully, but Lord Coldwater opened his book once more, his voice soothing and melodious as the sun slanted lower across the wall. 

Eliot woke a sweating mess in the morning. His clothes stuck to him unpleasantly but otherwise he felt much better. His mood lightened significantly when a servant brought him a fresh shirt and a basin of water to wash his face and arms. Doctor Pickwick paid him a brief visit, officially announcing him well enough to take some breakfast, the swelling in his ankle much improved and his fever gone. Lord Coldwater returned once Eliot was settled comfortably with a breakfast tray.

“I’m glad to see you looking so well.”

Eliot inclined his head through a mouthful of toast. “I am glad to be well, thanks to your lordship.”

Lord Coldwater smiled, but it was strangely distant; far from the warm regard Eliot had become accustomed to. His chair was as vacant as he left it, but he made no moves to sit. 

Ah.

Eliot shifted, trying to draw himself up to more of his proper height. He was a man of dignity, after all, and setting this to rights would require a hint of groveling that went against his nature. He’d learned well over the years to keep a clear head and a strong stomach in instances such as these, to steer thoughts from that which could disgrace him. Afterall, Mortimer Waugh ran the family business, and Thomas had married into a title to secure the Waugh family legacy. It was Eliot’s occupation, as his father had told him on his eighteenth birthday, to  _ not  _ end up in the stocks for indecency. 

So be it.

“I hope I didn’t stray too far from propriety in my weakened state, my lord. I can’t promise I was fully lucid for the experience.” 

Lord Coldwater waved a hand. “Think not of it, Mr. Waugh. I hardly remember to what you refer.”

Eliot relaxed into the cushions. Clearly, Lord Coldwater was a man of honor and Eliot should be ashamed he ever doubted him. 

“Indeed, I feel the same.”

A moment passed. Lord Coldwater worked his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You didn’t display much excitement at the prospect of my library, but I took the liberty of selecting a few manuscripts for your perusal. They’re fifteenth century. My grandmother was a bit of an...eclectic collector, and I thought you might find the  [ decorative programs ](https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/the-luttrell-psalter) quite stimulating.” Something of the now familiar twinkle glinted in Lord Coldwater’s eye, quickly gone. “Now that you’re feeling better I’m sure boredom will be your next greatest ailment.”

Eliot smiled. The viscount was proving thoughtful as ever, despite this renewed shyness. 

“That would be most welcome.”

Days passed, and for a social creature Eliot spent too much of them alone. Since he was no longer in a state of near unconsciousness, Lord Coldwater appeared to have suddenly renewed his vigor for maintaining his status as a recluse. True to his word, a footman delivered a selection of well kept books of hours for Eliot’s own personal entertainment. It was a rare treat—the medievals were a naughty bunch, even in their prayer books—but Eliot found he missed the enthused commentary Lord Coldwater no doubt would have provided. 

The housekeeper paid him a visit on a Thursday afternoon, to be sure Eliot was satisfied with his accommodations. 

“Everything has been wonderful, Mrs. McCauley. I’m privileged to convalesce in such a well-run home.”

The housekeeper beamed with pride, and Eliot knew he was in her favor enough to pry. 

“I beg you, is Lord Coldwater out for the day?”

She inclined her head. “I believe he’s walking the grounds with the steward, sir. Shall I tell him you asked after him?”

“Oh, no, don’t go through the trouble.”

The afternoon went by, the footman and Mrs. McCauley entering periodically to deliver tea and lunch and entertainment, all arranged by Lord Coldwater, but lacking in supply when it came to the viscount himself. Eliot had nearly given up hope by the time the sun set when the door opened once more. Ready to politely decline a nightcap or final slice of cake, Eliot turned to find not a servant, but Lord Coldwater standing before him. 

“Mrs. McCauley said you asked after me? Do you need me to call for the doctor?”

Eliot waved his hands. “No— I feel fine. Better all the time. I simply missed your company.”

Lord Coldwater’s shoulders sagged. He still held his hat, a tall brown affair, worn at the brim. No doubt from the way its owner wrung it between his fingers. 

“I’ve had some duties to tend to, now that you’re out of the woods.” The viscount winced. “And...well. I thought you might wish for some peace and quiet, lest you think me a haunt.”

Lord Coldwater looked a bit miserable at that, and Eliot wondered who on earth might have given the viscount the impression that his already reserved manner was in any way oppressive.

“I think nothing of the sort. Our acquaintance has been a great comfort in this unexpected trial.” Eliot smoothed the edge of his blankets, self-conscious. “I would hardly keep you from necessary obligations, my lord, but I pray you don’t think your presence is unwanted.”

Lord Coldwater still clutched his hat, but his eyes brightened. “Mr. Waugh…” 

“My lord.”

Eliot let the title hang in the air. He’d always taken great comfort in the rules of propriety, but after the lackadaisical days of fever they seemed to stand between himself and the viscount like a great wall. . 

“I do apologize, Mr. Waugh. No doubt I’ve left you much confused.” Lord Coldwater took his seat, a movement that brought Eliot relief. “Might I ask a favor of you? It would settle what causes such ungentlemanly behavior in me.”

“I pray you would, sir, as I would prefer not to spend the next six weeks in silence.” 

Eliot observed as the viscount took a short pace about the room, tapping his fingers against his lips in thought. He appeared to take Eliot’s query quite seriously, which was...endearing. 

“I would prefer—I, that is, if it isn’t too forward—“ Lord Coldwater appeared to gather himself. “Forgive me, Mr. Waugh. As you might imagine, I’m quite unused to company. As such, I might find myself more at ease if we relaxed certain formalities. Only if you are amenable.” 

Eliot raised his eyebrows. “I might be amenable, my lord, depending on the formalities you have in mind.” 

Lord Coldwater leaned in. “It’s  _ that,  _ as you just said it. Instead, you might call me by my Christian name.” 

Well. That was relaxed indeed. Eliot had fucked men and still bade them farewell afterward with their proper titles. 

“This would really be of help to you?” 

“I—yes.” The viscount’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Eliot paid that motion a great deal of attention. “I realize we are only new acquaintances, but after caring for you so intimately, I would much like to act as friends.” 

Lord Coldwater— _ Quentin,  _ even thinking the name came with a scandalous thrill—took his seat once more, nearly trembling as he awaited Eliot’s thoughts on the matter. His request was wildly impertinent, but Eliot knew he would have gone to far more inconvenient lengths to enjoy more of his host’s company. 

“Then it’s settled.” Eliot reached out to clasp his hand. “I look forward to more of your intimate care, Quentin.” 

Another impulse, foolish, so foolish, but Lord Coldwater--nay,  _ Quentin–- _ relaxed into the touch, turning Eliot’s hand over to cover it with his left. Eliot, his hand so enveloped in warmth, sighed. To be touched was a delight, but to be touched by a handsome man near enough to count his eyelashes (and what fine eyelashes they were), was near heavenly.

“As do I, Eliot.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Wow, the response to this has been AMAZING! we're so psyched to share part 2. Our goal is to post part 3 on Monday to wrap things up. Anyway, enjoy this chapter in which there are diversions...and then there are Diversions. Comments will be decorated with marzipan and royal icing and placed at the center of the dinner table for all to admire.

Eliot woke early one morning, before dawn. He didn’t think much of it, and was about to pull the covers over his head when he noticed the sun, peaking over the horizon from the sliver of view he had out the window. It was cold and dark at first, a purple shadow over the horizon, until it rose in earnest– a blazing fireball warming the cold autumn ground. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Eliot turned, and Quentin stood in the doorway. He had his boots on, as if he were about to go on a morning walk. By God, the man truly could fill out a sturdy pair of trousers. 

“Sorry, the maid must have left the door open when she lit the fire, I wanted to see if you were alright–” He stopped, a smile melting the awkwardness from his features, “Eliot.”

Eliot barely knew the ache in his ankle when confronted with such a smile. 

“Indeed it is beautiful.” Eliot pushed the curls out of his eyes, instinctually trying to make himself more presentable in the presence of such a handsome man. “A view I wouldn’t have expected in a room such as this.”

“I’m glad.” Quentin bowed his head, making to leave. “Well, then, good morning, Eliot.” 

Eliot returned the gesture. “Good morning, Quentin.”

It had been two weeks since Quentin had requested more informal standards between them. If you asked Eliot, it had been a masterful plan. 

Quentin donned his hat, resting a hand on the doorframe. “Shall we breakfast at eight?”

Eliot agreed, of course. He was utterly helpless, and content to be so. 

Despite the beauty of a sunrise and the thrill of Quentin’s friendship, after weeks of being allowed little more than sitting up in bed and a short hobble to the chamber pot, Eliot thought he might go insane. His normally fast life had slowed to a snail’s pace, and he tired of lying prone in the same position. It was a joyous day indeed when the doctor finally granted that Eliot might get some light exercise for the good of his circulation.

“No great  _ exertion _ , mind you,” Pickwick warned him very sternly. “And never alone, lest you should be reinjured. But perhaps a turn about the room, once or twice a day, to keep the blood flowing.” 

Of course, now that he had permission to stand, Eliot was determined to push the envelope. His trunk had arrived the previous week with a long letter from Margo, and the possibility of varying his wardrobe gave Eliot the courage he needed. He was set on the radical idea of seeing the outside of the parlor where he had heretofore been sequestered, and after a little cajoling Quentin consented to aid him. 

“We’ll just go across the hall to the library. It’s not as if much more of the house is open anyway.” Quentin declared from outside the room while a footman assisted Eliot into a fresh shirt and his warmest robe. It was a far cry from a fitted set of trousers, but in the thick brocade Eliot felt a little less like he was half-naked. Not to mention the forest green was terribly becoming on him and it was rare that anyone but Bambi got to see it. 

So attired, Eliot put on one slipper and hopped indelicately to the open door, on the other side of which awaited Quentin with an attractively stern expression. 

“You’ve entrusted yourself to my care and I won’t be lazy with it.” Quentin wrung a long length of polished wood in his hands, and once Eliot completed his study of the viscount’s visage he realized it was a cane. Slim wood, lacquered black, with a silver ram’s head handle that would look wonderful in Eliot’s long fingered grip. 

“Quentin, I would never dream of abusing your hospitality by reinjuring myself.” 

“I can only pray.” Quentin handed him the cane. “Boredom makes madmen of us all.” 

“How could I be bored, when I am to enjoy a tour of this ancient house in the company of a friend? I can’t wait to get a look at all those handsome  _ books. _ ” 

Quentin sighed, but smiled despite himself. “Alright, but stay close. I won’t have you falling.” 

Indeed, Eliot did. Even with the aid of the gifted cane it was impossible for Eliot not to put weight on his splinted foot, the result of which was a nauseating bolt of white hot pain up the length of his calf. After some experimentation, they found a workable model of Quentin supporting Eliot’s weight with an arm around his waist, which allowed him to hop along with the help of the cane. It was a bit too awkward to be considered properly erotic, but Eliot had little complaint about having to drape his arm about the shoulders of the surprisingly strong Lord Coldwater for the length of an afternoon. They took their time crossing the short hall. Eliot found his proper rhythm and soon there was little fear of their both tripping. 

“Whether or not you consider yourself a reader, I hope we’ll have a few things here to interest you. We keep a few paintings in the library, and there are some good views of the grounds.” Quentin nodded to the footman who opened the door for them. “Not to mention—well, I’ll just show you.” 

Eliot was already thrilled with this room, regardless of what it contained, because it was painted in a lovely pale green which was a different color than the burgundy wallpaper to which he had become too accustomed. Unsurprisingly, a great number of tall oak shelves lined the walls, all filled with books. Eliot assumed Quentin would steer him towards his first editions, an activity that would stir Eliot’s affection for the viscount if not his latent zest for reading, but Quentin instead turned them towards a corner of the large room, where it opened up to a kind of formal study. Dominating the alcove was a massive armoire surrounded by ornate shelves filled with tchotchkes. In a place of honor beside the there was a large map of the Atlantic Ocean, done in a fine print and stuck with red varnished pins that clustered around Trafalgar. 

“If I can entrust you to this ledge, for just a moment—” Quentin leaned Eliot quite stably against a standing desk already stacked high with books, and left him to undo the latch of the cabinet. Eliot’s polite interest was piqued more genuinely when the heavy oak doors parted to reveal all manner of worldly antiques and exotic specimens. 

“A real  _ wunderkammer _ .” Eliot smiled at the sight, and at how well Quentin suited the scene in his handsome brown day coat. “Whitespire is just full of surprises.” 

“Well, the original cabinets would have been rooms, but this is what’s left of ours. It must seem provincial compared to London’s museums—” 

“It seems marvelous, after two weeks in bed. I trust you to share all of your favorites with me.” 

Quentin fetched Eliot from his careful lean and helped him explore Whitespire’s antiques. Among them was a perfectly preserved narwhal horn, and an ornate astrolabe that allegedly originated in Al-Andalus in the sixteenth century. It didn’t take long to note a seafaring theme a bit at odds with Fillory’s landlocked territories. Eliot admired the mother of pearl shine of a nautilus shell, mounted with gold filigree to make an ostentatious  [ goblet ](https://blog.mam.org/2012/06/12/from-the-collection-nautilus-cup/) . 

“That was a gift from the Duke of Devonshire, a few generations ago when the Coldwaters were important,” Quentin said with a wry glance when Eliot reached out to touch the gold figurine of Neptune that formed the neck of the cup. Beside it were more natural specimens, coral and rare shells that looked like remnants from a trip to the seaside rather than noble largess. In the upper shelves Eliot noticed a long row of bottles, and in each one a miniature ship. There were sloops and thick man-of-wars and all manner in between, crafted with obvious care. 

“These must have taken a delicate hand.” The ships themselves looked to be of the century passed, but Eliot didn’t see a mote of dust on any of the bottles. 

“It was my lord father’s particular passion. He loved ships, and mapmaking, and all the natural oddities of the sea that could find their way this far north. He dreamed of being a Navy man, but his older brother died young, and it wouldn’t do for the future Viscount Fillory to go to sea.” Quentin nodded to the map mounted beside the curiosity cabinet that Eliot had noticed upon their entrance. “Father was keeping track of our victories against Napoleon when he took ill, some years ago now.” He reached out and touched one of the brightly colored pins. “He was a great admirer of Lord Nelson, you might imagine.” 

“I might.” Eliot felt an acute tenderness toward his host, and his obvious love for his father. “It’s a fine collection.” 

“Yes, I agree. My heir enjoys it as well, so I can rest easy that it will be honored after my time.” 

Quentin’s lip tilted in paternal amusement, and Eliot froze. 

“Your heir?” 

Had Eliot been so addled with fever as to miss the presence of a Lady Coldwater and son wandering about the manor? He must have given away some expression of alarm, for Quentin’s eyebrows rose before he laughed.  _ Laughed _ . 

“I can only imagine the horrors passing through your mind, sir.” Quentin’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “Rest assured, I don’t have a wife or progeny hidden away in my dungeon. I speak of my legal heir, my first cousin.” 

“Oh.” Eliot wasn’t sure on what parts, if any, of that statement he’d be welcome to comment. Quentin glanced at him slyly, as though he knew Eliot’s burning curiosity and was teasing him. 

“My father’s younger sister—well, she married a good man, a bit late in life.” Quentin’s words implied that this good man was not a member of the  _ ton _ . “A vicar. But they didn’t have a boy until their sixth child. Tom is not yet four, and a great admirer of sailing ships.” 

“As all boys should be. I imagine your aunt will be very grateful to you, that her son should inherit and her family be cared for.” 

Something in the tension of Quentin’s shoulders released. “Yes. That was my intention, as I’m not inclined to marry, myself.” 

Eliot merely nodded, the moment crystalline and fragile in the air before him. “Many are not.” 

There was a pause, as though Quentin expected greater interrogation. Eliot cleared his throat. “So, your great grandmother collected manuscripts, and your father the fruits of the sea. Pray tell, what is your contribution to the great halls of Whitespire?” 

Quentin ducked his head, awkwardness eased. “Well, I’m rather like my great grandmother, though my goals are more modest. I’m a lover of books.” 

“I might have guessed.” Eliot offered his arm. “Show me your best, then.” 

Quentin guided him between the shelves, pride evident in his eyes as he pointed out some of his favorite rare volumes. There was an heirloom copy of Spenser—Quentin pointed out the family bookplate dating back to its original publication in London—and other great English classics, and more recent acquisitions like the illustrated Wordsworth and a fine manuscript of Danish fairy tales. Each copy was lovely in its own way, and well-loved. It was plain that these books were read, and often. 

Eliot’s father kept an impressive library in his own right. Hugh Waugh loved to play academic when it suited his business deals, but most of the library was mere technical manuals and dictionaries bound handsomely in leather rather than anything worth reading. A true gentleman had a library, you see, or at least  _ appeared _ to. When Eliot was a boy he would look upon the shelves with such longing, wondering at the softness of the calfskin, and the secrets each book held within it. Once tall enough to reach them, he discovered that not only were they a beautiful sham, but that his eyes could barely decipher the dense words upon the page. 

Eliot banished thoughts of the past, lest they taint this lovely time with Quentin. 

“You’re quite the bibliophile,” Eliot said as Quentin leafed through a book of birds illustrated by a famous American naturalist. “How have you managed to shop from your estate? My family’s catalogue can’t be so prodigious as to include first editions.”

“I’ve traveled. A bit. More when I was younger.”

“Was it not to your liking?” Eliot could imagine the crush of a city, not to mention the bump and rustle of long coach rides, might be unpleasant for Quentin, who seemed content in quiet and solitude. 

“No, I enjoyed it in many ways. France, especially, has some lovely bookshops, among its other charms. But…well.” Quentin replaced the slim codex to its place on the shelf. “Travel is not so alluring when one must do it alone. And for better or worse, alone is how I spend most of my days.” 

Quentin paused, his hand resting on the shelf, pursing his lips as if he had said too much.

“Come, let me show you my classics shelf.” 

“Lead the way.” 

The Coldwater estate could claim ownership of many handsome Greek and Latin texts, and some English translations. Plato and Socrates and Aeschuylus. A fine paired edition of  _ the Iliad  _ and  _ The Odyssey _ , and... _ two _ copies of Catullus. Eliot glances down the row. Two of Petronius, and Suetonius, and yes, there they were. Two copies of Martial.

“I see you have some doubles in your collection.” Eliot was, let’s say,  _ familiar _ with these particular tomes, which he had bothered with the struggle of perusing, as they described certain Greek activities of which he considered himself a connoisseur. But he wanted to hear it from Quentin’s own mouth. “Are they particularly special editions?” 

“In a manner of speaking.” Was the viscount  _ blushing? _ Oh, this was a treat. “They’re unexpurgated versions. My father’s collection was fine, and probably more valuable than my own, but I felt it very important to have the truest version of the Greek, without any removals.” Quentin met Eliot’s eyes briefly. “No matter that some readers might find that content...distasteful.” 

Eliot dropped his gaze to Quentin’s mouth. He noted the wry set of it, and how very soft and welcoming it looked. “I admire your fearless curiosity, Lord Scholar.” 

Quentin’s hand tightened briefly against Eliot’s waist, but after a tantalizing moment he ducked his head with a soft smile. “Shall we have a short rest? I don’t want to exacerbate your injury in the name of exercise.” 

Eliot straightened, resettling his arm about Quentin’s shoulders. “I find myself quite energized by our tour, but I defer to your judgement.”

“There’s a sofa just past these shelves, and a view out to the lake you might find refreshing.” 

“Any view that isn’t my sickbed is a welcome one.” 

“Then I’m happy to treat you.” 

They turned the corner, and in addition to a large picture window and a sofa Eliot spotted a most welcome sight. 

“A pianoforte!” With Quentin’s assistance Eliot hobbled over to the handsome instrument. It was very fine, with a polished wood body and a thin stripe of mahogany inlay which gave it a subtle dignity. “It’s beautiful. Do you play?” 

“Only a little, and very ill.” Quentin aided Eliot to a seat on the stool before the keys. “I can read music, and for that I’m grateful, but I’ll never be a true proficient.” 

“That’s a shame.” Eliot depressed a key, testing the tune, when he caught his own words and looked up quickly. “Only that such a fine instrument should sit in disuse. I make no comment on your talents, my lord.” 

“I heard none,” Quentin assured him. “And you’re right, it  _ is _ a shame. I’m left hoping now that you’re a musician, that she might not be neglected today.” 

“A musician? I wouldn’t flatter myself with the title.” Eliot played a smooth set of scales, stretching out his left hand after an hour clutching the handle of a cane. He then raced off into a cheerful ecossaise in Mozartian style, delighted to see Quentin’s eyes light up. “But music is a pleasure, and so I learned to provide it, to myself and others.” 

“A useful skill in society, I imagine.” 

Eliot played a flourishing run, doubling it with his left hand for a bit of tasteless flair. “I know when to take my place at the keys to avoid dancing with certain ladies.” 

Quentin rested his elbow on the fallboard, affecting a casual air though Eliot noted a contemplative set to his mouth. “I’m sure you were in demand as a partner as often as a performer.” 

“You flatter me.” 

“I can’t possibly be the first to attempt it.” 

Eliot laughed ruefully. “No, with my family’s fortune I daresay you aren’t. Luckily, I’ve been highly discouraged from marrying by my older brother. He secured a title with his marriage, and between four sons there are already plenty of grandchildren to squabble over the inheritance.” 

Quentin frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair. If...I mean to say, if you were inclined to a lady.” 

Eliot’s fingers paused on the keys. He wet his lips, thinking of Quentin’s extensive and unexpurgated library. “The only woman I could stomach marrying is spoken for. So my brother’s wishes and my own are in harmony.”

“Oh.” It was a blessing to have the excuse of needing his eyes on the keys as Quentin fiddled with his neckcloth nervously. “I see.” 

Eliot pasted a smile upon his face. “So what would you have me play? I know all the most popular dances, and I’ve been told my tenor is that of an angel’s.”

Quentin perked up. “You sing?”

Eliot pressed a hand to his heart and affected an expression of great affrontement. “Do I  _ sing?” _

To Quentin’s obvious delight, Eliot launched into a lively ballad. As the youngest in his family, he’d been eager to earn the praise of his elders, and with no sisters to play it was his duty to be more artistically minded. He and Margo had become something of a sought-after double act, with her singing the tune with his dramatic accompaniment, but Eliot covered the vocals just as well as the piano in her absence. He always delighted in entertaining the party. 

Even parties of one. 

Eliot finished the ballad of a hero long past, following it with a lively reel fit for dancing. What Eliot would do to lead Quentin in a dance, to see him laugh and stumble over the steps, his hand warm in Eliot’s own...

Quentin clapped politely from his place on the sofa when Eliot finished, drawing him from his daydream.

“You play  _ so  _ well. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Eliot, usually a sponge for praise, blushed a bit about the ears. “Of course it would be better if I could make use of the pedals with my right foot.”

“I hardly noticed.” Quentin did look pleased. He had that genteel look of aristocrats trying not to smile too wide. 

They were so content with their musical afternoon that they took a light supper right there in the library. Eliot’s appetite had returned in full since his illness, and they feasted on apples and cold  [ lamb pie ](https://www.thespruceeats.com/traditional-british-game-pie-recipe-435751) . They savored a bottle of red wine and Quentin relaxed into informality, slouched against his end of the sofa with his glass balanced on his belly. Eliot was trapped in better posture so that he could elevate his ankle, but he made up for it by stretching his arm across the back of the sofa so that the tips of his fingers  _ oh so nearly  _ met Quentin’s. His eye caught the space between their hands over and over, yet neither of them pulled away. He felt drunk on Quentin’s good company, but the wine might have played a part.

Quentin read to him after a while, another Jean Paul novel, his voice melodious and the story vague enough to allow Eliot’s thoughts to wander. The footman returned with a new bottle of wine, and so lost in his contentment Eliot took the fresh glass with his left hand. 

Eliot must have moved too quickly, or grasped the glass with too much force, and his healing hand smarted. “Ah, damn–” 

“Allow me.” Quentin took the glass so that Eliot could flex his knuckles. The footman hurried from the room with an apology. 

“Thank you.” Eliot took the glass back with his right hand. “I’d hardly noticed it the last few days. I must have over exerted myself a bit playing.”

Quentin took his hand, running a thumb over Eliot’s knuckles as if examining his injuries, and the touch could be passed off as such if a servant walked into the room. Though looking at the serious lilt to Quentin’s mouth, Eliot prayed that it wasn’t clinical at all. 

“May I ask an impertinent question?” Quentin said after a few moments of silence.

“I live for impertinent questions.”

Quentin still held his hand. “It’s only… I was wondering. Pickwick noted that you were unlikely to injure your hand like this in a fall. He didn’t inquire further, but I had my own suspicions.”

“Which were?”

Quentin met his gaze. “Well, I thought it looked as if you hit someone with a closed fist.”

Eliot tread carefully, lest Quentin think him a brute with a temper. But neither would he lie to the man who had shown him such kindness. “You would be correct in that assumption.”

“I thought I might be. Once I came to know you I realized that a gentleman such as yourself would never stoop to physical violence without proper provocation. And what better provocation than that of protecting a member of a fairer sex.”

“It’s true. My arrogant cousin chose to insult Mrs. Hoberman in such a way that I was forced to act. Her husband had stepped away, and I felt it my duty to stand in for him. Margo and I have been friends for so long, you see.”

Quentin nodded, sighing quickly in a way that he had just been proven correct. “I thought as much. And my suspicions were proven when I saw you with Mrs. Hoberman.” He dropped Eliot’s hand. “How devoted you were to her, even in your weakened state. Such devotion honored by even her husband–”

Quentin looked so  _ disappointed, _ and a thought occurred to Eliot that made him both embarrassed and hopeful at once.

“Quentin, I think there might be a misunderstanding between us.” Eliot took Quentin’s hand again, the gesture dangerous without any medical alibi, but he felt pressed to touch him. “ Mrs. Hoberman is my dear friend. We’ve always thought of each other as kindred spirits. I cherish her, but we aren’t lovers.”

“But– you said–”

“I said I couldn’t stomach marrying. That isn’t because I’m tied to a married woman. I could never in good conscience trap a woman in marriage at all.”

Quentin blinked. Eliot watched as the realization came to him. 

“I see.” Quentin looked down at his feet. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. Eliot let their hands fall apart.

Returning to small talk felt hollow after such candor, but they spoke idly of books and art as the sun fell in the sky. The spirit was gone from their conversation, replaced with an awkwardness Eliot regretted. Soon it was time for Eliot to return to his room. Quentin assisted, his touch laced with a new hesitance. 

The servants had cleaned while they spent the day in the library, and Eliot was cheered by the sight of a fresh quilt upon his chaise. He didn’t wish to sit yet, so Quentin left him to lean against the mantelpiece.

Quentin gestured to a table near the chaise without meeting Eliot’s gaze. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Please.”

Neither of them commented on the earliness of the hour to be imbibing spirits. Eliot sipped his (an excellent whiskey), the warmth from it and the cackling fire easing the stiffness from his lately unused muscles. 

Quentin downed his generous measure in one swallow. “I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence, from before. It was rude of me to pry for curiosity's sake.”

“Nonsense. A curious mind is nothing to be ashamed of. And It seems we have some qualities in common.” Eliot rested his weight on his cane. It allowed him to turn his back to Quentin and cast his gaze upon the hearth. Such conversations were usually safer that way. “You’re not married. Nor does it seem you have any intention of pursuing such a sacrament. And I too...” Eliot tensed his jaw. “Despite my many social engagements, I too spend many of my days alone.”

The fire crackled in the grate, giving time for Quentin to collect his thoughts. It felt an eternity before he spoke. 

“Keen observations. We share many commonalities.” 

Eliot wet his suddenly dry mouth, bracing himself. “Do you also favor men, then? Or merely the pleasure of collecting forbidden books?” 

Eliot finished his drink, setting the glass on an empty shelf before turning to face the Viscount Fillory once more. Surprisingly, Quentin met his gaze directly. 

“It depends on the man. Or the woman. I’m—I’ve had lovers tell me I was twice blessed.” Quentin winced. “And others speak less kindly. But that is my truth.” 

“I take you at your word, sir. Men and women. One seems easier, since we’re no longer among the Greeks.” 

“In some ways and not others. We fear the law, yes, but in courtship there is...a great deal of public scrutiny under which I do not flourish.”

Eliot felt a pang of sympathy. The belle mond could be cruel indeed to the son of a country lord who favored quiet conversation and books. It showed similar cruelty towards a fourth son of an upstart industrialist. 

“I had a fiancée once, it, um, it bears saying,” Quentin cast his eyes down. “I was young, and our parents approved, and I thought myself quite in love. But, well, as you see, I remain unattached, and I hear she’s living happily with a more outgoing husband in Copenhagen.” 

“Perhaps that’s best.” Eliot touched Quentin’s sleeve, toying with the cufflink there. “Perhaps it’s kismet, even, that we two should find each other unattached and alone here.” 

Quentin’s cheeks were pink. “Is it?” 

“It could be.” Eliot traced his thumb down the edge of Quentin’s pinky finger. He wanted to turn his friend towards happier things. “After all, I’m deeply in your debt, and—ah, that is, if you felt so inclined I’m sure I could be persuaded—“ 

Quentin stiffened. “I’m not sure I care for the economical nature of your phrasing.” 

Eliot pressed his hand to Quentin’s arm. “Forgive my poor attempt at a flirtation then. I only meant that we are two men of a certain inclination who find ourselves with an uncharacteristic degree of privacy.” 

Quentin’s melancholic loveliness veered too close to a true frown. “I pray you don’t mock me, or-or consider yourself in any way  _ obliged _ on account of our commonalities—“ 

“I consider myself obliged on account of your handsomeness. And your sweetness, and your lovely reading voice.” Eliot risked giving up his stable lean against the mantle to pet his thumb under Quentin’s cheekbone. “I’ve had the pleasure of your tender care these last two weeks. It would only be a further indulgence if you allowed me to care for you in turn.” 

The viscount stared at him, wide eyed. He was far too surprised for a man so well formed, clever and kind. But dear Quentin, it would seem, was not one to let a taste of happiness pass him by when the opportunity was placed at his feet. He guided Eliot’s hand from his cheek to his lips, brushing a kiss against his knuckles. There was nothing clinical about this touch. 

“You must know—you must have realized how taken I am with you. That...that you are everything beautiful to me.” Quentin met his eyes then, and as always that rare treat stopped Eliot’s breath. “If you mean it—you really want to, ah, that is—if you want me. If that’s the case... then I put myself in your hands.” 

What was Eliot to do but kiss him? 

It was a tender thing, and a bit uncertain, as until only a moment ago they had toed a careful line of polite friendship. Even in the most libertine clubs one was so well cinched into propriety that Eliot always found the first touch—the first kiss—to be a bit of a stumble over the line of decorum into intimacy, like a foal who hadn’t quite found their footing. That Eliot had even attempted a kiss might have been an impertinence, as not all of Eliot’s past partners desired to be kissed rather than promptly fucked or sucked off, but Quentin bloomed into his touch at once. 

Quentin kissed as though he’d been holding his breath for it. His cheeks were flushed and his breath met Eliot’s skin in intimate little puffs even when their lips briefly parted. Eliot made thorough acquaintance with Quentin’s soft mouth, and the light scratch of his evening’s beard shadow. He kept their kisses light, though hardly chaste, easing Quentin into all of his senses as one might sip a fine wine. They had been close all day, body to body, but this was sharing the same air, tasting desire off one another’s tongues. 

Never would Eliot be more grateful that Quentin kept such an unfashionable house. The absence of spare footmen and maids and meddling underbutlers meant that he was free to press his hand to the small of Quentins back and kiss him just as Eliot had dreamt since being rescued from the woods. In his state of undress he felt the warmth of Quentin’s body against his keenly. Eliot felt the promise of simmering arousal in his belly as Quentin threaded his fingers into Eliot’s hair and parted their lips with his tongue and a low groan. It was forward of him, and Eliot might have whimpered his pleasure in response. Perhaps. He was quickly losing track of which of them was making which involuntary sounds as Quentin all but pinned him to the mantelpiece. When they parted for breath, the sound was wet, and Eliot felt a terrible throb of want.

“That—“ Quentin’s words were interrupted by a smile that creased his eyes at the corners. It practically brightened the room, and Eliot was blessed to see it. “That was marvelous.” 

He still looked so  _ surprised _ , that against all reason Eliot felt compelled to ask “Quentin, you’ve been kissed, yes?”

“Yes.” Quentin swallowed. “But rarely. And never so well.”

Let it not be said Eliot was immune to a lover’s flattery. He sought out Quentin’s lips once more.

It was dreadfully intimate. Eliot leant against the stone mantelpiece and drew Quentin to his breast. The cane clattered to the floor, and Quentin took his weight gallantly. They kissed, and kissed again, entangling their hands in each other’s hair. 

“Do you want more?” Eliot asked the sweet plane of Quentin’s cheek before pressing a kiss there.

_ “Yes." _

“How would you have me?” Eliot ran his lips over the shell of Quentin’s ear, just to feel him shiver and moan. 

“I could ask the same of you.” Quentin pulled at the tie of Eliot’s robe, his fingers dancing over near bare skin. Eliot contemplated the thinness of linen as Quentin cupped his waist, running his strong hands over Eliot’s ribs. Dipping lower, Quentin stroked his fingers across his belly, and lower...

Eliot, always a man of action rather than letters, stilled Quentin’s hands and raced to the buttons of Quentin’s trousers, never breaking their kiss. Eliot freed Quentin’s cock from his trousers with his right hand, his left stroking Quentin’s hair. Let his ankle be damned, Eliot wasn’t going to let balancing on one leg keep him from lovemaking. Quentin was nearly hard, and the blood hot thickness of him was heaven in Eliot’s hand. 

Quentin released a wanting, masculine sound that made Eliot’s cock twitch where it pressed against his thigh, but he wouldn’t be deterred from his present task. Eliot began to stroke him, pressing his thumb to the tip of Quentin’s cock where it was greeted with wetness which eased the passage of his fist. The heat of the fireplace was a kiss against Eliot’s bare legs as surely as the kisses he gave to Quentin. The dimness of the room and the heaviness of the drapes felt like co-conspirators in their liaison, shrouding them in warmth and secrecy so that no one but Eliot would hear Quentin’s cries as he pleasured him. 

“Oh Christ—“ Quentin panted into the crook of Eliot’s neck, fucking into his fist. Eliot breathed the musk of his exertion like perfume. “God in heaven, don’t stop—“

Eliot wouldn’t—couldn’t—ignore such an earnest plea, and he kissed the line of Quentin’s jaw as he sped his hand. It wasn’t the most elegant frigging he’d ever offered a gentleman, but you wouldn’t know it by the way Quentin moaned against him. 

Without meaning to, Eliot tightened his fingers his Quentin’s hair, surprised when Quentin gasped– “Yes– _ please–” _

Would this man ever show an imperfection?

Eliot pulled a little harder, making Quentin meet his gaze as he twisted his hand over him. Quentin’s eyes were wide, his pupils dark and round, and his lips parted as he panted his pleasure. He grasped Eliot’s shoulder just as his legs began to buckle, nearly taking Eliot with him, but Eliot withstood the pain of leaning some of his weight on his bad leg to behold the sight of Quentin coming in his fist. Eliot kissed him on his open mouth, feeling every shudder than ran through him. 

Quentin quieted after a few moments, nuzzling Eliot’s cheek. “You are…  _ very _ good at that, sir.”

“And you are a pleasure to watch, my lord.”

Quentin smiled, truer than Eliot had ever seen. Quentin produced a handkerchief for Eliot to clean his hand with before refastening his own trousers, and then encouraged Eliot to lean against him once more as he brought their lips together in a kiss as deep as Eliot had ever experienced. 

Eliot would have been glad to see to himself while Quentin continued to kiss him, it would have been a  _ privilege,  _ in fact, but Quentin had other ideas. He practically carried Eliot to the sofa, depositing him and setting his leg up on a footstool. He looked nearly pained as he stripped of his coat and fell to his knees between Eliot’s parted thighs. 

“I’m going to—“ Quentin’s eyes were glassy as he parted Eliot’s robe and rubbed the heel of his hand over Eliot’s evident arousal. “Oh, god, you’re wonderful. I need it.” 

“You’ll have it.” Eliot helped Quentin ruck up his shirt until he was exposed and he could guide Quentin to wrap his fist around his cock.

Quentin hesitated, a high flush to his cheeks, and for a moment Eliot worried he might faint. He cupped his face. “Are you well? If I’ve overwhelmed you—“ 

“No, not at all.” Quentin pulled Eliot’s cock through the circle of his fist. “It’s been too long, is all. I’ve...deprived myself. I hadn’t realized.” 

Quentin licked his lips, and Eliot sighed. “I could never deprive you of anything that brought you pleasure.” 

“No,” Quentin agreed, thumbing over the head of Eliot’s arousal. “I only pray our pleasure will be mutual.” 

With a hum of pure gratitude Quentin bent his head and guided Eliot’s cock into his mouth. 

The Viscount Fillory was a good man, earnest and steadfast, and he didn’t approach sucking Eliot’s cock any differently than he did reading or conversation, or tending to his lands. Eliot’s head hit the back of the sofa as his arousal met the warm, wet suction of Quentin’s mouth. Quentin was capable, if not practiced. He made a tight circle of his lips and let Eliot have the pressure of his tongue where it would make him gasp and sigh. Careful of his propped up leg, Eliot slid down the sofa and spread his thighs to give Quentin better access. He was rewarded by the snug press of Quentin’s soft palate and the sight of tears pricking the lord’s eyes as he pulled Eliot’s cock far enough into his mouth to choke lightly. Eliot’s hips twitched up against his will and Quentin pulled back sharply, releasing Eliot’s spit slick cock with a cough.

“Sorry! Sorry, didn’t mean to—“ 

“No, it’s alright.” Quentin’s voice was only slightly roughened. “I have you.” 

He pulled Eliot’s cock through the spit slick channel of his fist and paid attentions to the head, licking and kissing in a manner that threatened Eliot’s sense as his extremities lit up with pleasure. Quentin’s free arm came to press heavy on Eliot’s hips and he held him down with surprising strength as he sucked him deep again, his eyes fluttering shut as if he found a great peace in the action. Eliot gave himself over to Quentin’s strong arm, and the pressure of his tongue on the underside of his cock, and his greedy wet sucking. He found a grip in Quentin’s thick hair and played at guiding him, but Eliot was putty Quentin’s hands. It was all he could do to breathe, and not spend like a schoolboy, and avoid shouting loud enough to summon the housekeeper. 

Eliot spent eventually, though he prayed he lasted long enough not to shame himself. It was a shock after two long weeks without—Eliot had gone longer without a tolerable lover but he was a regular patron of his own hand when he wasn’t a guest on someone else’s chaise. He nearly pulled a hamstring curling over Quentin in his pleasure and forgetting the stiffness of his splinted leg. Eliot gasped back to life to the firm pressure of Quentin massaging his upper thigh, and the sight of his own seed wetting Quentin’s reddened mouth. The viscount wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and offered Eliot a slanted grin. 

“I hope you’re alright.” 

Eliot shuddered, gasping through a smile as Quentin released his soft and sensitive cock from his grip. “More than alright. Sensational.”

Quentin sighed happily and rested his head against Eliot’s thigh. “It’s good work, cocksucking. I’d almost forgotten.” 

Eliot petted his fingers through Quentin’s silky hair, his chest still heaving from the exertion of climax. 

“Lord Coldwater, you astonish me.” 

Quentin’s shy smile told Eliot his words had been taken as the compliment they were. Eliot tipped his head back against the sofa, bliss buzzing in his veins. 

His intimate convalescence had finally begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beloveds, its been a brief but joyful journey into the world of Regency England to craft this quiet little romance. We hope you all enjoy reading as much as we've enjoyed writing another happy ending for a deserving pair. Comments will be embroidered as a tasteful embellishment on a waistcoat to be envied by men of fashion all about the ton.

If Eliot had a true passion in this life (besides fucking handsome viscounts), it was for the sartorial arts. The fit of a snug pair of trousers to a well turned calf was as sweet as a great work in marble. Sliding one’s arms into a bespoke dinner jacket was like the embrace of a lover. 

A day in one’s dressing gown was an indulgence. Three weeks was agony. 

With this in mind, it was a significant evening when Eliot was declared in good enough health to dress for dinner. He would not be able to wear a full pair of shoes, much to his chagrin, but Eliot was vain enough that he was willing to endure the indignity in the name of showing off his figure in evening dress. Particularly since he would be showing off to a very receptive audience.

“I don’t often change for dinner, you know.” Quentin observed Eliot’s meticulous search through his trunks for the  _ perfect ensemble _ with amusement, an open novel in his lap. “My housekeeper thinks you a marvelous influence on me.”

Eliot spoke with his head nearly buried in silk and wool. “You mean besides my goading you into all manner of unspeakable sin?” 

“Yes, besides that. Mrs. McCauley is quite...old fashioned when it comes to the position of servant and employer. She would faint dead away before presuming to comment on my behavior so long as the wages are paid.” 

“My kind of housekeeper. I might have thought things would be more precarious in the country.” 

“Not at all. Aristocrats are allowed any untold number of eccentricities by their servants. It’s like we’re animals in a menagerie rather than Christians expected to follow the proper social order.” 

That shocked Eliot into laughter, and Quentin joined him, flushed with his own cleverness. They were in good spirits when Quentin’s valet knocked on the door. Eliot straightened himself to a more dignified posture as Jameson entered. 

“You rang, my lord?” 

Quentin, still grinning, set aside his novel. “Yes, Jameson. Mr. Waugh and I will both be dressing for dinner, but his things have been packed away all this time. Might he entrust you to see to them?” 

“Of course, my lord. Do you have a preference for your coat this evening?” 

Quentin eyed the ochre wool that Eliot had chosen for his jacket. “Whatever will complement the gold silk. You know best. Just lay them out on my bed. I’m going to loan Mr. Waugh my washroom before dinner.” 

“Very good, sir. I’ll have some hot water brought in.” 

“Excellent. We’ll be up in an hour or so.” 

After a few further moments of indecision, Eliot released a small pile of clothes to Jameson, who departed with a bow. Quentin returned to his novel, legs crossed in the very picture of gentility. Eliot couldn’t help but lean his chin on his hands and stare, a smile tugging at his lips. Quentin glared at him over his page, cheeks flushed.

“What?” 

“Nothing. Only that I find your lordly manner deeply,  _ deeply _ erotic.” 

Quentin threw his book at him, so Eliot kissed him in retaliation, and they passed the next hour in pleasant activities.

It was slow going up a turret of stairs to the master bedroom where their dinner clothes awaited. Eliot was rewarded at the end with a good hot water scrub, and the sight of Quentin’s bed. It was a fine four poster, the oak carved with baroque acanthus leaves, with a down mattress and thick velvet hangings brocaded with scrolling vine work. He and Quentin had thus far limited their amorous activities to the drawing room (and the library, and once in the hall behind a suit of armor), but there were certain arrangements best enjoyed in a good sturdy bed rather than a chaise lounge. 

“You are wearing the most wicked expression,” Quentin informed him as he buttoned the fall front of his buckskins over a fine linen shirt. 

“On the contrary, I was offering the Lord thanks for his providence that I’ve been blessed with the ability to climb stairs once more.” Eliot sat on the edge of the bed, knotting his cravat with the ease of one who often redressed in circumstances his valet couldn’t be privy to. “I can now survey this magnificent bed, and imagine all the diversions we might get up to within its confines.” 

“Such as?” 

Eliot threaded his arms through his waistcoat (olive paisley silk), then kicked his still bare legs for Quentin to see. “Such as helping me with my breeches. I’ll never be able to get them over this damned splint on my own.” 

Ever the able caretaker, Quentin did manage to get the fitted breeches over Eliot’s bad ankle with only some mild cursing and one sharp warning twinge. By comparison, working the fitted wool of his favorite ochre yellow coat over his shoulders was a pleasure. Eliot dabbed cologne under his jaw, and wound a bit of pomade through his curls. Buttoned up and brushed free of lint, Eliot felt like his old self. 

“You look—“ Quentin almost looked wistful, staring with obvious admiration. “You look handsome. You’re like you're meant to be.” 

Eliot cheeks warmed, as though his fever had returned. “And you, my darling, are still half dressed.” 

“Oh, of course—“ 

Eliot raised his eyebrows as Quentin slipped on a warm yellow waistcoat that nearly matched his own dinner jacket. “Dressed to complement, are we?” 

Quentin yielded mastery of his buttons to Eliot’s nimble fingers. “Well, I—it’s what I would do if I were to have dinner with...with someone I was courting. An old habit, I guess.” 

Eliot kissed the uncertainty from Quentin’s mouth. “It’s a charming habit. Now let me have your cravat.” 

Eliot tied Quentin’s neckcloth with nimble fingers. 

“One wouldn’t think putting clothes  _ on _ would be such a titillating experience,” Quentin said, a little breathless. 

Eliot grinned as he slid the knot snugly against his lover’s throat. “Then you haven’t been having the right kind of affairs.” 

Quentin smoothed his hands over Eliot’s dinner jacket. “Evidently not. Have I said that you look  _ very _ handsome?” 

Eliot winked. “You have, but I expect to hear it a few times more before the night is out. Apparently I’m being courted, and such sweet nothings are required, as you well know.” 

Eliot held out Quentin’s navy herringbone coat, smoothing out the shoulders as it settled on his lover’s svelte frame. They did make a  _ fine  _ pair. Quentin drew a comb through his hair but left it hanging loose about his shoulders. It was a silent flirtation, as they both knew how Eliot loved to pull his fingers through that hair, and how dearly Quentin loved to feel a playful tug. 

_ Later _ , Eliot promised himself as Quentin passed him his cane.  _ There will be time for barbaric indulgence after a civilized meal.  _

Quentin offered Eliot his elbow. “Might I escort you to dinner, sir?” 

“Lord Coldwater, you may.”

They were served in a modestly opulent dining room. The walls were paneled with striking medieval heraldry, one of the many charms of England’s ancient houses. Places were set at a more modern dining table bedecked with flowers and flickering candles. 

“I’ve rarely been granted such a place of honor at my host’s table,” Eliot said as Quentin steered him to the seat at the viscount’s right hand. 

“I hope it’s acceptable to you.” Quentin looked more than a little self-conscious as he aided Eliot into the high back chair. Eliot gratefully set his splinted ankle upon the low stool under the table. “I’d hardly aspire to a London dinner table, but I’ve barely shown you the courtesies of a proper guest and—” 

Eliot clasped Quentin’s hand between his own despite the discreet presence of the footman waiting to serve. Why shouldn’t a pair of friends exchange innocent intimacies? “Quentin, your welcome has been beyond courtesy, and I’m honored to share your table. These flowers are lovely. Are they from your gardens?” 

“Ah, yes.” Quentin took his own seat at the head of the table, looking relieved. “Mrs. McCauley has a talent for arranging them.” 

“She should have my heartfelt compliments.” 

It was a beautiful autumnal arrangement, chrysanthemums and autumn crocus with dramatic sprays of sumac touched with gold. The arrangement rested on a pristine white tablecloth embroidered in heavy gold thread embossed with the Coldwater house crest. By clever arrangement, one forgot about the rest of the room, and thought only of one’s dinner partner, and the delicious smells of the dishes hidden under silver cloches. Quentin set his napkin in his lap, and at that silent signal from the master of the house, dinner was served. The first course was a  [ white soup ](https://vanessariley.com/blog/2014/10/09/4317/) , one of Eliot’s favorites and a true luxury in the country. It was delightfully savory, and no doubt benefitted from the quality of cream available outside London. 

“I relieved the cook of making the usual three main courses,” Quentin confided to Eliot as the soup was cleared and their entree revealed. “I have all the desire in the world to indulge you, but we two can only eat so much, no matter how formally presented.” 

“It was a prudent choice and I admire you for it.” Eliot said this with a great air of decorum, and Quentin was laughing as the footman served them handsome portions of  [ trout ](https://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/trout-with-browned-butter-capers) with brown butter and capers and a colorful autumn vegetable  [ terrine ](https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/food-network-kitchen/winter-vegetable-terrine-5237202) . With a loaf of fine white bread it was a feast, and Eliot had never enjoyed a meal more. The clink of silver on china and the quiet steps of the footman were a soft background to their conversation, of which there was plenty. It was nothing like a London dinner party, where Eliot would perform acrobatics to avoid topics of religion (C of E was all well and good, but the papists had far prettier churches) or politics (Quentin was removed from the immediate goings on of Parliament, but the Coldwaters had been Whigs since the days when the term referred to Scottish Protestant horse thieves.). They spoke their minds, and found truths with each other even where they didn’t agree. The conversation ebbed and flowed naturally, leaving Eliot refreshed rather than fatigued. 

“I find the manner of writing quite pleasant,” Eliot said, discussing their recent readings of Jean Paul. “But the characters seem to spend most of their time thinking and talking to lunatics, even on urgent errands.”

“Ah, but you see, that is the  _ beauty  _ of life.” Quentin was a bit flushed with wine, and he gestured eagerly. “The odd characters, and our own strange inner thoughts, caught out in the long trek of mundanity.” 

“And you find this reassuring?” 

“Very much so. Man’s highest aspiration should be to that of warm friendship, and perhaps even mutual affection with another whose strangeness is complementary to our own.” Quentin quieted, a bit self-conscious of his own passion. “I think a brief understanding of another, in all of their idiosyncrasy, is—um, a kind of humble glory to savor.” 

“That’s lovely.” Eliot raised his glass. “To savoring humble glories.” 

Quentin tucked his hair behind his ear, and allowed Eliot’s spontaneous toast. “I—yes. Hear hear.” 

Eliot met Quentin’s gaze over the rim of his glass, and felt a thrill of pleasure as surely as if Quentin had grasped his hand over the table. 

“On the topic of friendship,” Quentin signaled to the footman for more wine, “You must be very missed in society these last weeks.” 

Eliot hummed. “Perhaps. There is a certain exoticism to including a Waugh in one’s guestbook, but I’m an acquaintance to many in town and a true friend to few.” Eliot sampled another bite of the buttery trout. “Aside from Mrs. Hoberman, of course, but while we gave a poor impression, I assure you she’s more than capable of taking comfort in the company of her spouse.” 

“Mr. Hoberman had a fine eye for stonework.” Quentin said this as if it indicated a great deal about one’s character. Charming. “He seemed as if he would be equally amiable in any company.” 

“Indeed. He’s an admirable helpmate to a formidable woman. ...He’ll be an excellent father, one would think.” 

Quentin raised his eyebrows. “Is such a fortuitous occasion expected?” 

Eliot felt suddenly compelled to have another draught of wine. “Sometime in late Spring, god willing.”

It was a topic of great joy, and unstated worry: Eliot for Margo and her health, Margo for Eliot and his hedonistic bachelor state. He knew that despite their best efforts he was at risk of being left behind as Margo grew into the responsibilities of a society matron.

“I understand family life brings a great many changes to those around us.” Quentin was perceptive as ever.

“Indeed. It’s hardly as if they’ll be exiting civilized society, but you can imagine that in the future Mrs. Hoberman will have occupations in which I can only intrude to a limited degree.”

Quentin smiled, a bit wry. “As is the fate of all men who resist the married state. I have to believe true friendship, however, can adapt to all manner of new circumstances, especially happy ones.” 

Eliot nodded. “One can only hope. Regardless, society will have a few less charms when Margo enters her confinement.” 

Now Quentin was puzzled. “You’ve spoken with more enthusiasm on the topic before now.” 

“Only because I’m the worst kind of socialite,” Eliot assured him. “Don’t mistake me, there are many pleasures to be had at a ball or a gentleman’s club, but as I’ve interest in neither marriage or politics the activities left to me are shallow diversion. It all begins to feel a bit...hm—”

“Decadent?” 

Eliot winked. “Just so. Especially compared to the virtuous exercises of country life.” 

Quentin laughed. “Of course.” 

Courses were cleared, and after a delicate slice of almond cheesecake Eliot was more than satisfied. 

“Shall we go through?” Quentin proposed, as if he addressed a full dinner party and not just Eliot. 

As there were no ladies present, they occupied the drawing room, savoring a brandy and some intimate conversation on the sofa. Quentin dismissed his servants so they were free to sit knee to knee, Quentin with one thigh tucked up under his lap and an elbow against the back of the sofa. It was boyish and improper, and Eliot could imagine many a schoolmaster scolding young Master Coldwater to sit like a gentleman with his feet on the floor, but Eliot loved it. He laid a claiming hand upon that thigh, sturdy muscle from tromping about the estate flexing under his fingers as Quentin ducked his head, shy and flirtatious. 

“You’re a fine figure of a man.” Eliot squeezed just to see Quentin’s lips part on a little gasp. “The valets of the ton would fight over you. A perfect  [ Brummellian ](https://www.nationalgeographic.com/history/magazine/2019/05-06/beau-brummell-nineteenth-century-fashion/) model.”

“You flatter.” 

“I do. You haven’t been flattered enough in life, I think. You’re far too modest and wholesome.”

Quentin playfully pushed Eliot away for his cheek, only to allow himself to be reeled back in for kisses. Quentin was such a  _ joy _ to kiss. He gave himself over wholly, as though in this one matter he’d never learned shame and Eliot took full advantage. The study fell silent but for sighs and the wet hush of lips sliding together, a dance too carnal for even the most libertine floor. When they parted, Quentin was half spread across Eliot’s lap, and Eliot had a bold handful of Quentin’s backside. God bless the Viscount Fillory’s dedication to his grounds, as Eliot would reap the rewards of all those long hikes with the steward. Eliot nibbled on Quentin’s beestung bottom lip and squeezed his rear. Quentin melted against him. 

Eliot nosed the arch of Quentin’s cheek, murmuring in his ear. “Allow me an impertinent question.” 

“When have I denied you?” 

Eliot nipped at his earlobe. “Are you ever fucked?” 

Quentin shuddered, pressing a wet kiss to the hinge of Eliot’s jaw. “Only when I am very, very lucky.” 

Eliot rocked Quentin down against his lap. They were both hard, and the press of Eliot’s cock between Quentin’s thighs was full of promise. “Then might I tempt you upstairs to indulge in the forbidden delights of sodomy?” 

Quentin laughed, only to moan at the press of Eliot’s hand to the front of his trousers. “Mr. Waugh, you may.” 

While the ease of access granted by a dressing gown had it’s benefits, Eliot found that having to undress before fucking was a pleasure unlike any other. The delayed gratification only enhanced later pleasures: perhaps it was the exhibition of strength required to peel a man out of a well-fitted coat, as Eliot did to Quentin as he turned the lock on the bedroom door. Perhaps it was the time to appreciate the effect one had on one’s lover, as Eliot appreciated Quentin’s trembling fingers as he fumbled with the buttons of Eliot’s waistcoat. Perhaps it was finally,  _ finally _ getting to press one’s palm to the bare, sweat damp skin of the Viscount Fillory’s back after having been denied the privilege by layers of linen and wool. 

Eliot was sat on the edge of the bed for the sake of his ankle and Quentin was in his lap, not a stitch on between them. Quentin was coming alive under Eliot’s fingertips, rutting into his touch and saying such things as to sear themselves into Eliot’s memory forever. 

“As often and capably as you’ve brought me to pleasure, I’ve still touched myself in this bed, imagining you shared it with me.” 

Eliot’s heart stuttered at every word. It was as though Quentin had never been touched before, locked away safe and pristine in this drafty castle for Eliot’s own discovery. 

“Oh god. Oh  _ Christ _ , Eliot, I beg of you—“ 

Eliot held him by his thighs, hair thick and masculine against his palms. For all their liaisons this was the first time Eliot beheld Quentin entirely bare, and he was magnificent. Eliot kissed him tenderly, hushing him. “I’m here now. In your bed. You shall have anything you like.”

“I should like—“ Quentin squirmed, cheeks flushed and his cock rising hard against his belly. “I should like to be under you, with your weight upon me, for a while. Then you should have me as best pleases you.” 

It was a more cautious operation than Eliot would have preferred, but with some prudent arrangement of limbs Eliot laid them out on the bed, the counterpane pulled back so that Quentin could be spread out over creamy white linens. Quentin was not a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was smaller than Eliot. By the way Quentin went boneless with Eliot above him, it appeared that Quentin took great pleasure in this fact of nature. 

In between heady kisses Eliot pressed Quentin into the down ticking and savored his shiver. “What best pleases me is a pleasured bedmate.” 

“Then you must be well satisfied, because I’ve never felt so wonderful.” 

Eliot brushed the hair back from Quentin’s brow and placed a kiss there. “Beloved, we’ve only just begun.” 

Quentin gasped, as though he’d been brought to the cusp of  _ le petit mort _ by a simple endearment alone. Had Quentin never been loved in such a way, where partners might trade harmless sweet things like  _ beloved  _ and  _ my darling _ without the weight of expectation? Eliot was capable of summoning such love makings in a brief time, and releasing them just as quickly. He’d rather spend an afternoon being tender with a stranger than a lifetime going through the motions of a twice a week fuck with some club acquaintance. Eliot would have such pleasures in life whether he had to beg, borrow, or steal them, and so Quentin was going to be romanced. He would have all of Eliot’s affection, however briefly, and they would both be left with the memories to comfort them in colder times.

“Do you have oil?” 

A bottle was procured from a subtle drawer and pressed into Eliot’s hands. Quentin spread his legs, and Eliot opened him with slickened fingers, adorning his throat and chest with hungry kisses. There was no need to rush. Eliot savored the act as he rarely had been free to do in the past. Quentin’s body was all heat and slick smoothness inside, and it was difficult not to spend for sheer anticipation. He was going to take Eliot so well.

“ _ Ah—”  _ Quentin clung to him, his fingers wound in Eliot’s hair, and Eliot allowed himself to be manhandled. He pressed his ear to Quentin’s precious breast, that he might feel the rasp of fur against his cheek and hear the racing beat of his lover’s heart as Quentin was made ready to receive him. Quentin spread himself wider, hooking his thigh around Eliot’s ribs and it revealed the sight of Eliot’s fingers stretching him, their flesh wet with oil. Quentin being fucked was all sound and fury, his cock flushed within its nest of dark hair, but this was only the overture to their joining. 

“Have me,” Quentin pleaded. “I’m ready, just—fuck, put it in me.” 

Eliot stopped Quentin’s pleas with a penetrating kiss, swallowing his groan as he removed his fingers and fisted his cock, leading the head to Quentin’s hole. It was only then that he was reminded that no amount of passion could speed the healing of a broken bone. He shifted his weight and was rewarded with a punishing lance of pain up his leg, nearly elbowing Quentin in the stomach as he fell with a groan that had little to do with lovemaking. 

“Good god, are you alright?” 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Eliot laughed helplessly, if only to avoid the tears of humiliation that pricked at his eyes. “Christ, Quentin, forgive me.” 

“It’s—ah—” Quentin was still panting with desire. “It’s nothing at all. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?” 

“I’m in supreme agony, which can only be relieved through one solution.” Eliot pressed his erection to Quentin’s belly to make his meaning clear. “However my desires will not be accommodated in my present position.” 

Quentin stroked Eliot’s jaw, a determined set to his flushed cheeks. “We shant be defeated by this. Come on.” 

It was a swift enterprise to put Eliot on his back, the pain in his ankle subsiding. Quentin pooled more oil in his palm and coaxed Eliot back to a proper cockstand. It hardly took any effort, as Eliot forgot his embarrassment thanks to the sight of Quentin’s slick fist around his cock and the promising shine of oil between his thighs as he slung them over Eliot’s lap. 

“You are a marvel.” Eliot might have been gazing up at Apollo or Hyacinth as Quentin rose up to guide Eliot’s cock inside. “God, darling, look at you.” 

Quentin’s brow furrowed and his lips parted as he took him slowly in. Eliot did his best to soothe him through that initial ache, his own pleasure unspeakable as his cock met the slick vice of Quentin’s body and was engulfed. With a grunt Eliot pulled himself up to a sit, taking Quentin’s mouth and guiding him down until Quentin was flush against his lap, entirely invaded. 

“Eliot…”

Eliot’s name had never known such tender enunciation. It had been muttered impatiently by his parents and eldest brother, and lovers never moved past a grudgingly given “Mr. Waugh” even whilst between the sheets. Margo said his name with fondness unmatched, but Eliot couldn’t have her all the time, and she wasn’t his. Eliot had never belonged to anyone, and now he felt entirely owned. 

“Again, say it again–” Eliot breathed against Quentins lips as he took his cock in hand, stroking him back to hardness after the shock of being penetrated. He hoped his friend would understand his meaning. 

Quentin’s eyes fluttered open. He grasped at Eliot’s shoulders. “Eliot, Eliot I—“

Eliot kissed him again, deeper this time, as a reward. Never had his name felt so safe in the mouth of another. Quentin didn’t bother with endearments; he said Eliot’s name with a surety at which Eliot could only marvel. But then, Quentin didn’t know the games of love men played in society. He simply exposed his heart for ruin. 

“I have you.” Eliot set his hands at Quentin’s hips, encouraging him to rise up, and sink slowly back down, and then they were fucking.

It was a banal thought, but Quentin must have been a very capable horseman. He set the pace, rising and falling on Eliot’s cock until he built to a satisfying rhythm. Quentin touched Eliot throughout it all, running his hands over his shoulders and then through his chest hair, making them both messy with sweat and oil. All told it was delightfully savage. 

“You feel–  _ oh–” _

The bed rocked and Eliot licked into Quentin’s mouth. “Let me hear you. I want to hear how you love it.”

Quentin didn’t stifle his sounds of pleasure, and as Eliot beheld him he was reminded that he fucked the lord of the manor. They need not fear here, alone in the country away from the eyes of society. Eliot alone was invited to this bed, and he intended to make full use of his invitation. 

As if he could sense that Eliot was close, Quentin quickened his pace, and Eliot was powerless in the face of his desire. He would draw it out another time, fuck Quentin so long and slow that he forgot his name–but today was not that day. Quentin pushed Eliot to the bed, caging him in with his arms as he rode back on Eliot’s cock with tender urgency. Eliot chanced his ankle by thrusting up into the wet heat of Quentin’s ass once more and then he was coming. He locked his arms around his lover and bit into his shoulder as pleasure flooded him and he spent. 

Eliot enjoyed the after effects of his orgasm for only a few moments, for Quentin was still hard and panting above him, and Eliot felt the overwhelming need to  _ serve. _

“Up,” Eliot demanded, chest heaving. 

Quentin groaned his displeasure at being pulled off of Eliot’s cock, but all was forgiven as Eliot guided him up onto his knees and into his wanting mouth. Eliot made efficient work of sucking his lover off, saliva pooling in his mouth as he pulled him deep and hollowed his cheeks. Pleasure bubbled in his blood as Eliot tasted Quentin’s thick cock and breathed in the scent of their mutual exertion. 

“God,  _ god, _ Eliot—” Wrung out to the edge of pleasure, Quentin grasped at Eliot’s shoulders, his hips hitching into Eliot’s mouth until tears pricked at his eyes from the threat to his gag reflex. Still he persevered, rolling Quentin’s balls in his palm while he clutched at his buttock with the other, guiding him in his urgent fucking. Quentin was a mess of oil and come between his thighs. Eliot pressed two fingers through that mess into the hot flesh of Quentin’s abused hole and was rewarded with a cracked groan and the sudden swell and twitch of his lover’s cock in his mouth. Spend washed across his palate, bitter and sweet, and Eliot swallowed with gratitude. He let Quentin’s cock slip out of his mouth, kissing and licking the noble length of him until he was soft and sensitive. Quentin clutched the back of Eliot’s neck, trembling from head to toe and making all manner of lovely sounds. Eliot ceased his ministrations with one last kiss and with barely a nudge Quentin collapsed into his arms. 

Eliot pet his hair, kissed his lips, and gently deposited him in the bed linens. They were sticky and sweaty and glorious, laid out side by side on the bed in an indolent sprawl. Quentin looked on the genuine cusp of shock, a half smile at his lips as he pressed his hand to his heart. 

“Never in my life have I been had so thoroughly.” 

Eliot hummed, feeling lascivious and wicked. “Prepare yourself, darling, for in about an hour I’ll be after you again. And perhaps another time before the sun rises.” 

Quentin wheezed on a laugh, his forearm tossed indolently under his eyes. “God, you might exhaust me. I’ll be bedridden for a week.” 

“Then you’ve discovered my grand plan, Lord Coldwater, for I have little intention of leaving this bed now that I’ve become acquainted with it.” 

Quentin kissed him only a brief farewell to stand, wetting a cloth in the basin of water on the bureau, returning quickly to see to Eliot and then to himself. Eliot was touched by the gesture. A bit more comfortable, they settled facing one another with the counterpane pulled up to ward off the chill. Quentin wriggled closer until he was in Eliot’s arms, his head tucked perfectly under his chin. 

“Not to be in any way presumptuous,” he murmured, nuzzling at Eliot’s throat. “But during your stay I hope you’ll consider yourself welcome to spend as much time as possible in this room.” 

Eliot cupped Quentin’s chin in his palm, tilting his head up for a kiss. “Darling, I could think of no greater pleasure.” 

So ensconced, the two men found rest with one another, safe from the uncertainties of the future and the drafts of ancient castles alike. 

* * *

  
  


Another week passed, and the doctor encouraged Eliot to put some weight on his ankle and begin walking. First around the grounds, and then perhaps a short constitution no more than a mile. Refitted into a slimmer split, he was able to squeeze his foot now into his roomier pair of boots. Unfortunately, this meant that Eliot and Quentin had little excuse to confine themselves solely to the bedroom during the day, but Eliot supposed that sacrifices must be made in the name of healing. One short walk at a time they explored the gardens of Whitespire, Eliot intrigued by the  [ Roman follies ](https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/502021/fake-it-until-you-make-it-10-artificial-ruins) that had allegedly been installed by Quentin’s grandfather. 

“He was quite mad,” Quentin said with a fond air as they picnicked in the shelter of a temple facade. “It was certainly the Viscountess Fillory who kept us out of poverty in those days.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, I think it’s terribly  _ romantic _ .” 

Quentin laid his head on Eliot’s shoulder, and it felt like agreement. 

The next morning Quentin met with his steward, leaving Eliot to amuse himself. He absconded to the library, choosing a book at random and settling on the window seat. Through the mottled glass Eliot saw that a fog had settled over the hills, bringing with it a chill distinctly winter in nature. 

It was late November, nearly the Christmas season. Had he been here five weeks already? The doctor ordered him to stay put for six, but after that, what? He could stay another day or two after the conclusion of his convalescence, but anything longer would rouse suspicion. 

Eliot worried at his bottom lip. For a moment, he indulged in some negative thinking: perhaps Quentin wanted Eliot to leave. Clearly the viscount had enjoyed his wild but brief affair with the wayward son of a shipping titan, and might be ready to return to quiet normalcy. Eliot’s inevitable return to London would be a tidy way to end their affair, with happy memories left on both sides. Yes, that was probably true, and Eliot should prepare himself for it. 

But… he turned a page in the collection of poetry, letting his eyes glaze over the words…but what if Quentin didn’t want to end their affair? The thought was small but mighty, and it grew stronger with every beat of his heart. 

_ There are ways men of such a persuasion can live their life unbothered.  _ Eliot’s own words, turned on himself. Of course, when he’d said that to Margo upon telling her of his preference for men (she had thought he was courting her in a distant past), he’d meant that he could live discreetly. He’d drifted from lover to lover without any thought of permanence, but he knew men who lived in a way that allowed them a measure of happiness—apartments situated in close buildings, or across a hall. Oaths of bachelorhood and fortunes quietly left to nephews and adopted wards. Portraits painted with bosom companions instead of wives, and letters so affectionate so as to put poets to shame.

Eliot shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. 

The decision was simple: he would  _ ask _ Quentin to return to London with him, even if it was just for a season. Eliot saw it all clearly in his mind’s eye. He would masquerade as a charitable chaperone, shepherding the provincial Viscount Fillory through the treacherous ton. Eliot’s brothers would fume, privately, and damn them all. They couldn’t make any fuss enough that wouldn’t affect them as negatively as it did Eliot. No one else would be the wiser. 

And perhaps—Eliot gave up on the book altogether to fully surrender to his daydream—perhaps Quentin would like London, with Eliot by his side. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes. Quentin would come to favor the city over the country, and Eliot would arrange adjoining apartments with his dear friend, for why should bachelors like them live alone? They could take turns sleeping in each other’s beds, and wake together with the sunrise. Quentin would love it; lovers, hidden in plain sight. It was like a novel. 

Eliot stood from the window seat, brushing dust off his trousers. He would ask Quentin. No harm ever came from an honest offer. 

As if summoned by Eliot’s thoughts, Quentin entered, looking a bit harried. 

“There you are. How was your morning?” He rose up to his toes to kiss Eliot on the cheek. “I’m sorry going through the reports took longer than I thought.”

Eliot brushed his thumb over Quentin’s chin. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Quentin laughed, and they kissed. Another time, Eliot thought. Why spoil a perfectly good morning with a risky proposal?

Quentin broke away, stroking his hand over Eliot’s lapel. “Fairweather tells me that one of my tenant’s orchards are coming along well. I mean to pay them a visit tomorrow.”

“I’m sure that will be welcome.”

“Mhmm.” Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin, and he rested his head on Eliot’s chest. “Would you like to accompany me?”

Eliot smiled against Quentin’s hair.

_ I’d go anywhere with you.  _

“I’d be delighted.” 

And so, Eliot waited for the perfect time to make his offer, and the next day the roads were dry enough to venture out to Quentin’s nearest tenants, the Thatchers. Eliot donned his most effectively rustic attire for the occasion. He felt dashingly rugged in a bottle green hunting coat and herringbone tweed wrapped around his ribs to ward off the chill. Most triumphantly of all, Eliot celebrated relative freedom by buttoning his buckskin trousers all the way down to the ankle. 

Quentin met him at the door in a similar walking ensemble (navy blue was such a  _ fine _ color on his lordship) and they set off on a companionable stroll. 

“I’m afraid I’ve been inattentive as of late,” Quentin said as they made their unhurried way down the dirt path. “Usually I make my rounds once a month, but with our occupations—”

“You do keep me so delightfully busy, Lord Coldwater.”

“—I’ve been lazy with my duty.” Quentin blushed as beautifully in the sunlight as he did indoors. “With winter coming I believe my visits bring some reassurance.”

The sun was warm despite November just around the corner. Eliot listened politely as Quentin told him about each family, enjoying the light exertion and fresh air. It was clear Quentin  _ knew  _ his tenants. He knew which family was expecting a child and who was having good luck with oats instead of wheat and which man needed a break on his rent due to a recurring back injury. 

Eliot couldn’t help but think of his brother, with his purchased title of earl. One would think that after their mutual trials at Eton (Eliot didn’t mind the teasing so much, being called a dock rat was preferable to being called a nancy) the new Earl of Spencer would show some interest in his more humble residents rather than trying to fit in with aristocrats. Eliot doubted whether his brother even knew his tenant’s names, let alone visited them. 

The first farm loomed in the distance, and Quentin led Eliot up the winding path to a small stone house. Evidently, this was an expected trip, as the family waited outside to greet the Viscount Fillory. It was something of a flock of homespun. Eliot thought he counted at least five children between four and sixteen years of age.

“Mrs. Thatcher, lovely to see you again,” Quentin said as the man and woman of the house bowed and curtsied with their best manners. “My cook will be looking for more of your famous cheese, we so enjoyed it last time.”

“Thank you, my lord. I thought it was a good batch.”

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Waugh. He’s been my guest at Whitespire these last weeks and wanted to see more of the estate.”

Eliot made his introductions, but was content to quietly observe as Quentin walked the grounds with Mr. Thatcher, inspecting the fields that had been harvested and discussing how to best proceed before first snow. Quentin was obviously knowledgeable, but heeded to Mr. Thatcher’s opinion on the land. 

Thatcher wished to show Quentin the progress on a new orchard over the hill, and Eliot gratefully accepted Mrs. Thatcher’s invitation for tea in the house just as his ankle began to ache. The Thatcher children were all on their best behavior with Eliot sitting at the plain kitchen table, but Mrs. Thatcher was good company, unintimidated by Eliot’s presence. 

Eliot admired the airy room free from aristocratic haughtiness. He accepted a cup of tea and one of the elder daughters opened the shutters to let out some of the heat coming from the stove, giving Eliot an unobstructed view of Quentin and Thatcher walking towards the top of the hill. 

“He’s a good one, Lord Coldwater.” Eliot looked away from the window to accept a topping up from the kettle, his cheeks warm to have been caught staring by Mrs. Thatcher. She stood by and they looked out over the fields together. “Like his father.” 

“You knew the previous viscount, then?” 

“Aye, he used to come around as well. Not too often, mind you. His lordship was polite of common folk that way.” Mrs. Thatcher offered Eliot a wink. “Anyway after John and Caroline were born his lordship used to bring the present Lord Coldwater down to see the children. Of course he was just young Master Quentin, then.”

“Charming.” Eliot smiled over his cup, thinking of Quentin as a boy in knee pants, running around the barnyard with his own tenant’s children. Mrs. Thatcher sighed. 

“He was always a dear boy. And so sad, after her ladyship left Whitespire. We used to worry about the pair of them, all alone in that castle.” Mrs. Thatcher flapped her hands in the air, as if to dispel the sudden melancholy. “Ah, but that’s not for me to speak on, begging your pardon.” 

“Not at all.” Eliot let his curiosity burn down to an ember. “This is a marvelous tea cake. You don’t perchance make your own jam?” 

“Well, of course, and with our own blackberries from the hill. Susan, Molly! Get a basket for his lordship’s kitchen.”

While engaged in polite praise of Mrs. Thatcher’s canning abilities, Eliot thought once more of London, and of his grand plan to invite Quentin into his life. Like any man of fashion, Eliot frequented clubs where men indulged their passions. He tried to picture Quentin among his usual company—gambling, smoking, drinking, adjourning to back rooms for more private entertainment—none of it fit. Would Eliot have even noticed Quentin if they met there? Would he have spared him a glance? 

Eliot couldn’t say for sure, but what he did know was that now—watching Quentin speak earnestly with Thatcher’s oldest son, no doubt graciously including the teenager in the decisions that would one day be his—Eliot couldn’t look away. He was like the subject of a pastoral masterpiece, strong and lovely against the craggy landscape. 

Quentin returned soon enough, and Eliot met him at the door. 

“Are you alright?” Quentin asked. “You look a bit peaked.”

Eliot shook his head, leaning on his cane as they made their way to the front yard. “Must just be the chill.”

The family gathered near the paddock to bid the viscount farewell. Quentin patted his pockets, as if just remembering something. 

“Ah, one final piece of business, Thatcher, if I can intrude on you for a moment longer.”

“Of course, my lord.” 

“It’s been brought to my attention that one of the misses Thatchers has recently celebrated a very special birthday.” 

The farmer laughed. “You’re too kind, my lord. That would be our Susan. Susie, come thank his lordship for his notice.” 

From the gaggle of children a small girl emerged, her cheeks freckled and her hair in pigtails. Eliot watched in amazement as Quentin went down on one knee before the girl. 

“Miss Susan, how old are you now?” 

Susan bobbed a curtsy. “Ten years old since Thursday. Thank you, my lord.” 

“My, that is an important age,” Quentin said, fishing for something in his coat pocket. “It’s—well, it’s just a little thing—but, I hope you’ll accept this small token to mark my congratulations for the occasion.” 

The girl gasped in amazement as Quentin revealed from his pocket a small, perfectly formed scallop shell. It practically shone in a delicate pink in the cold, drab surroundings. 

“I found this on my last trip to Marseille,” Quentin explained. “But I thought it might be much better suited to a young lady’s collection than my drafty castle.” 

“Thank you, my lord!” Susan bobbed again with a wide smile, before running back to her family. “Mama, look!” 

“It’s beautiful, love,” her mother said. “I’ll help you fix it to a pin for your Sunday frock.” 

Eliot was desperately charmed. Quentin beamed, cheered by making a child smile with the simple gesture. 

“She’ll be talking about it for ages, my lord,” Mr. Thatcher declared with an affable air as he escorted them back out to the road. “We’ll have no peace.” 

“I won’t apologize for that, Thatcher. You keep too cheerful a house for much peace and quiet.” Quentin accepted the man’s bow with a modest nod of his head. “I’ll send Fairweather in a few week’s time with news about the pear saplings.” 

“Very good, my lord.” 

A whispering wind accompanied their slow walk back towards Whitespire, brisk and bracing.

“Your tenants care very much for your happiness, I think.” Eliot brushed their shoulders together. “I’m not sure what greater compliment can be paid to a lord.” 

“They’re good people. I have a sacred duty to them.” Quentin looked out over the crest of the hill with something like pride, and it lit him up. “I wouldn’t trade my vocation for anything.” 

“No, I should think not.” 

With that, Eliot let his planned offer of a London season die a quiet death. There would be no adjoining rooms overlooking Hyde Park. Quentin was lord of Fillory, and he had tied himself to the land long ago. That was as it should be. Eliot would savor what time they had left together, and leave gracefully when the time came. 

There was tea waiting when they arrived home, and it took the chill from their bones. Then Quentin led Eliot upstairs. 

Eliot had been so happy to be back in his fashions, the pull of his jacket over shoulders a kind of armor, but it was with great relief when Quentin backed Eliot into the bedroom, undressing him as he went. First the aforementioned jacket, then the neckcloth— a break for Quentin to kiss the bare skin of Eliot’s throat—then his trousers. Eliot returned the gesture until they were clothed in just their shirtsleeves. After all, such casual circumstances had been how Eliot had fallen in love with the Viscount Fillory. 

After some time, the heat of their kisses faded into something sweeter and it felt right to fall together into Quentin’s feather bed for an afternoon nap. They rested in each other’s arms, occupying that blissful space between sleeping and wakefulness. Eliot half dreamt, and in his mind’s eye the bed became soft grass. They were on one of the hills they had walked just an hour ago, but it was green and lush, not the washed out tan and grey that bedecked the countryside this close to winter. Quentin’s eyes were open, watching Eliot, the imagined sunlight warming his complexion. 

Eliot blinked, and he was awake again. Quentin pressed himself closer, his nose brushing Eliot’s collarbone Eliot savored the feeling. There would be no springtime in Fillory. Eliot would be back in London long before he got to see Quentin in his summer linen jackets. 

Quentin mumbled something against Eliot’s chest. 

“What was that, love?”

Quentin smiled, lifting his face to meet Eliot’s gaze. “I was just cursing the cold.”

“It is indeed a blight upon us.” Eliot tangled their legs together under the covers, warming Quentin’s chilled feet. “My mother loved the winter. I always thought that quite bizarre.”

“There are those that prefer the cold.” Quentin paused, treading carefully. “You don’t speak of her much. Your mother.”

Quentin pet a hand down his ribs, a soothing gesture, as if he sensed Eliot’s tension. 

“She died before I turned fourteen. My father sent me away to school after that.” Quentin hummed, pressing his lips to Eliot’s bare shoulder. “And…” Eliot swallowed. Best to give in the time he had left. Quentin could have all of him, if he asked. “She was kind. And patient. She loved a good story, like yourself. She kept a private library of novels.”

Quentin propped himself up on an elbow. “She sounds lovely.”

“Yes well—“ Eliot rubbed his eyes, near blinded by the tenderness in Quentin’s gaze. “Nothing so lovely lasts in the Waugh family. Even my father had a more tender side, once upon a time. All that survives of him now is spite and a room full of ledgers.”

Quentin paused, thoughtful rather than appalled at Eliot’s words. “I understand.” He paused, tracing a finger over Eliot’s hand between them. “My parents.. I know what it is to see two people so unhappy that it takes the life from them.”

Eliot didn’t press, but he knew that Quentin must refer to the late Viscountess Fillory. He’d garnered enough information to piece together a rather sad tale of a wife and mother so discontented that she saw fit to leave her son. Quentin’s father hadn’t pressed the matter when she chose to live separately, evidently. 

“I only say because,” Quentin swallowed. “I wouldn’t presume to know how you feel about our affair, or what expectations you hold but–you are so dear to me, Eliot. I don’t want our time together to pass without telling you that. It’s a gift to feel such fondness for another, as not everyone is so blessed to feel anything at all.” 

Before Quentin lost his conviction, Eliot leaned in and kissed him. “You must know how I will treasure this time together in my heart. Always.”

If Eliot hadn’t become an expert at studying his companion’s visage in the last weeks, he might not have noticed the disappointment in Quentin’s gaze. It wasn’t enough. But it was all Eliot had to give with the clock ticking menacingly upon the mantel, mocking Eliot and the happiness that he never thought he would know blossoming in his chest. There wasn’t enough  _ time. _

“As will I.” Quentin returned the kiss, forcing a smile. “Enough talk. The cook has another dinner planned for us tonight. Our time is short, so I command you to ravish me as you see fit.”

Eliot’s heart constricted. “How could I refuse a command from my lord?”

Eliot tried to be playful, light and smiling in his movements as he kissed Quentin into the pillows and freed him from his shirt, but all he felt was the weight of the emotion. Eliot had enjoyed many affairs, but for all his playacting at romance there was always an understanding of necessary detachment. Even before clothes came off Eliot knew there was no chance of love, only mutual pleasure at best and open disdain at worst. Quentin knew nothing of such boundaries. Eliot wouldn’t be the one to tell him. 

The sunlight streamed through the curtains as they made love. It wouldn’t be the last time, but Eliot took in every kiss, every hitch in Quentin’s breath, as if it were. He fucked Quentin properly, the way Quentin had wanted since they began their affair: on his back, with Eliot resting his weight upon him. A pillow under his ass assured that Eliot reached the most sensitive spot inside Quentin on every stroke. Quentin made love with his eyes open, like his heart. 

“Yes— _ yes—”  _ Quentin held one of his own knees bent to allow Eliot deeper, staring slack mouthed at the place where they connected. “Do it hard. I want to– I want feel you everywhere–”

Quentin’s mouth gasped open as Eliot stroked deep, and Eliot kissed him, lacing their fingers together and pinning Quentin’s hands above his head. There wasn’t much time for talk after that. 

Some time later they laid together, sated, as Eliot lavished attention over Quentin’s entire body, kissing his lips and beyond. Quentin pet Eliot’s hair as he did his work, the gesture more hesitant than Eliot was comfortable admitting. 

“You have the most wonderful arms.” Eliot kissed Quentin’s left bicep, trying to distract from the melancholy turn the air had taken. “One would think you spent time in the boxer’s ring.”

Quentin laughed, but there was no spirit to it. Silence descended, and Quentin made himself closer, resting his head upon Eliot’s chest. 

“Does your family keep Christmastide?” He asked, his breath warm on Eliot’s skin. 

Eliot cleared his throat. “With much fanfare, I’m afraid.”

“Then you will be expected back in London soon, I imagine.”

Eliot bit his lip. He wrapped an arm around Quentin’s shoulder, pulling him closer. It was the first time they had acknowledged this aloud. The very evidence of their earnest lovemaking was proof enough that Eliot was no longer an invalid, and would have to leave soon. 

“I suppose I should call for someone to come fetch me. I’m sure Margo would love to scold me again within the confines of a coach.”

Quentin stiffened, lifting his head to meet Eliot’s gaze. “Not yet. The… the snow– the first snowfall is so lovely at Whitespire, and it would make for a fitting end to your stay, wouldn’t you say?”

Eliot leaned in, kissing the worry from Quentin’s face. “I would. The first snowfall sounds as good a time as any.”

They slept close that evening, back to front. Eliot held Quentin fast, and Quentin never released their hands laced at his chest. 

* * *

The snow did fall, and Eliot admired the fluffy, petal-like flakes with a broken heart. He’d written ahead to Margo, and his brother, and he was expected back in town by week’s end. Jameson had been good enough to pack Eliot’s trunk for him, and the carriage was ready to see him on the road first thing in the morning. 

It was nearly noon, and Eliot had spent the entire day so far alone. Quentin had hidden himself away again, and Eliot could hardly blame him, for he too dreaded their final hours. What could two men possibly say to one another in farewell, after they had plumbed the depths of intimacy? Eliot imagined what a letter to Quentin might look like, even a month from now, containing only warm regards for a friendship doomed to fade until even the most precious details were lost to time. 

Eliot took a deep, shaky breath. He couldn’t afford to shame himself in front of the servants by weeping. There was only one thing for it. He would not allow himself to slink away like a coward. He and Quentin would have their final day, full of all possible affection, and then that would be it. He would move on and take what comfort he could from a marginal proximity to the Hanson’s family hearth. 

This was the way of things for a man in his position. 

Eliot found Quentin in his library, in a state of obvious distress. He paced, lifting books and setting them back and needlessly adjusting knick knacks on his father’s shelves. 

“Beloved, are you ill?” 

Quentin jumped and nearly dropped a first edition of Swift. “Ill? Not at all. I was merely thinking about the snow.” 

Eliot hummed, nodding toward their favored picture window. “It’s a lovely sight.” 

“Lovely, yes, but dangerous.” Quentin chewed his lip. By its rosy appearance Eliot might guess Quentin had been indulging in the nervous habit all morning. “I fear I misjudged the weather, and now the roads will be hazardous. You...I can’t say it would be safe for you to travel.” 

Ah. Eliot felt something radically hopeful blossom behind his breastbone. He’d vowed to make a graceful exit but he’d been secretly praying for a sign with every beat of his heart that Quentin might want his company beyond a temporary affair. He could only hope now that Quentin had been searching for the same sign from him. “So I should remain through the winter. For my safety.” 

“Yes, I think that would be best.” Quentin nodded to himself, and the tension of his shoulders eased, as though he had played a clever trick. 

“And what of spring? Will you fear for flooding?” 

Quentin’s eyes darted to Eliot’s, as though examining his countenance for mockery. “Perhaps. One never knows going through the low countries back to London, and—”

“Quentin.” Eliot had to temper his hope with a touch of reality. “I keep rooms in London. I have many friends there, and many I consider less than friends who would take great pleasure in imagining all manner of ignominious reasons for my presence here. Such rumours could color my family’s reputation, and they might feel compelled to rescind the many personal liberties I enjoy.”

Eliot’s lover looked dangerously close to miserable. “Right. Of course. I—it was stupid of me to suggest—” 

“No, it was wonderful.” Eliot drew Quentin’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them. “And it’s not impossible. But there must be a  _ reason _ . A better reason than the weather.”

It was an aching pleasure to observe as Quentin touched the very seabed of despair before he heard Eliot’s words properly, and hope lit his features. It hung, unspoken between them for a long minute, questions yet unasked and promises silently given. 

“Let me think on it,” Quentin said at last, like a vow. He squeezed Eliot’s hands and disappeared into his bookshelves. Deeply charmed, Eliot rang for tea and took a place on the sofa to wait him out. 

The next hour was a mild cacophony of urgent thinking. Eliot admired the veil of snow on Fillory’s trout lake and let his heart take on the rhythm of Quentin’s pacing. There was the occasional hum, and sigh, and the tapping of nervous fingertips on an oak desktop. At one point Eliot heard the rapid approach of footsteps, only for Quentin to realize a critical flaw in an idea and turn back, dejected. Another quarter of an hour passed and then, from near the curiosity cabinet, a gasp. There was a great shuffling of papers, and the thunk of a leather finance ledger being opened (Eliot knew the sound well from a boyhood in shipping offices). 

“Eliot! I have it!” Quentin emerged from his corner study with his hair mussed, as though he’d run his fingers through it more times to count. “You can’t leave–Because I’m going to bring you into my employ.” 

Eliot set down his teacup, his piqued. He had no cliche objections to being a kept man, so a wage on top of a place in Quentin’s affections sounded fine indeed. “Is that so? What service might you require, my lord? I always thought I’d make a fine valet, but I wouldn’t want to usurp poor Jameson.” 

“Good lord, no. Nothing like that. I just realized that I’m in great need— the most urgent need, in fact, for, um—” Quentin gestured in the air, looking for a word, before his eyes lit up. “A secretary! That’s it. A personal secretary. For matters of London business, and my collections.” 

Eliot felt the tug of a smile at his lips. “A secretary.” 

“Yes.” Quentin smiled back as he let the idea develop in the air between them. “A legitimate, respectable post for which you are well qualified, with a salary. Your family could have no objection. It would require your presence in town, partly—you could still live there, if you liked, and be close to Mrs. Hoberman, but um—” Quentin half looked as though he might faint from his own boldness. “You would have all the reason to return here. Several times a year. At least.” 

Eliot hummed. “A generous offer, my lord. And an attractive one. But…” Eliot wet his lips. “Maybe I’m tired of London.” 

“Tired of—oh. If that were the case.” Quentin cleared his throat. “Some trips would still be necessary. For business and such. But, um, well...you could live here. At Whitespire.” 

“With you.” 

Quentin’s eyes were bright. “With me.” 

Eliot held out his hand. “Quentin, come and ask me.” 

Quentin scurried forward. He took Eliot’s hand and knelt— _ knelt _ —at his feet. Eliot thought he might swoon. 

“Don’t go.” Quentin spoke urgently. Sweetly. Ardently. “Be my—my lover. For however long you’ll have me. Please stay with me.”

“Yes.”

“—I’ll make you legitimate for the ton, whatever it takes, and you’ll still see your friends—they can come here, even, and stay—” 

“Quentin—” 

“We can travel, if it would make you happy. I’ll go anywhere if it means we can be together—”

Eliot had to stop his lover’s words with a kiss. “Darling, I said  _ yes _ .” 

“But I—oh.” Eliot kissed him again. 

“I’ve lived flippantly for too long. It’s time I found a quiet profession in a respectable house.” Eliot let Quentin taste his smile, so he would know he was teasing. “Let London forget me, beloved. My heart lies elsewhere.” 

Quentin exhaled, and Eliot knew this had been what his lover waited for. 

“I–” Quentin stopped, and Eliot tasted the words that they would one day share. Not yet, but soon. For now, Quentin said: “I know that you can be happy here. I can make you happy.”

“And I you...if you’ll let me?”

Eliot took Quentin’s next kiss and the tender seeing-to that followed as answer enough. 

* * *

So it was decided. Eliot would return to London for a brief stay, to see out Christmastide with his family and establish himself as the Viscount Fillory’s new man of business. He made a great show of meeting with several reputable antiques dealers, and quietly gave up his fashionable Harley Street apartments. He would spend future visits as Margo’s hanger-on in Grosvenor Square. Eliot toasted society farewell at the Hoberman’s New Year’s Eve celebration, and on January the second he packed himself and his extensive wardrobe into a carriage, along with several new books for Quentin and a plaster bust of Petronius that Eliot couldn’t bear to live without. 

“We’re long overdue for the epistolary phase of our romance, anyway,” Margo said with a glare while she blotted her eyes with her handkerchief. “Make your Lord Coldwater play secretary, as I intend to include salacious gossip for him to read aloud to you, and if he isn’t properly shocked I shall be quite put out.” 

“Bambi, I swear, you shall see my name on your post so often you’ll grow ill at the sight of it.” Eliot pressed Margo’s hand to his heart, and gave Joshua’s a good fraternal shake, then he was off.

Four days of rear numbing travel, and then Quentin was waiting for him on Whitespire’s ancient front steps. 

“Mr. Waugh, welcome home.” 

It was all Eliot could do not to kiss him right in front of the footmen. Instead he bowed. “Lord Coldwater. So kind of you to meet me.”

It was only a mundane habit, but Quentin’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he bowed in return, and Eliot realized it was the first time they had ever exchanged such a greeting. 

They left the servants to take care of Eliot’s trunks and absconded to the library. With the click of the latch Eliot had Quentin pressed up against the door, thrilled to show his lover just how exciting things could be without any injury between them. Quentin accepted Eliot’s kisses while smiling, and it was as if no time had passed at all. 

Not wanting to rush, Eliot slowed their kisses until they parted, nuzzling Quentin’s cheek. 

Quentin laughed, giddy. “Whatever shall I do now that I have you here, and with the full use of both your legs, no less?” 

Eliot tucked a silken lock of Quentin’s hair behind his ear and traced his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “After the length of my journey I have several ideas, starting with locking ourselves in your room until supper tomorrow.” 

Quentin beamed, then suddenly went quite pink. 

“I—um, I had a room opened for you.” 

“I had hoped you would. Not to presume upon your hospitality but I would prefer not to sleep in your drawing room ever again.” 

“Certainly not. It’s just—well. I thought it was right, but if you’d prefer a different arrangement—” 

“Quentin.” 

“Mrs. McCaulay thinks it’s quite practical, as we won’t even have to open another fireplace—” 

“ _ Quentin. _ ” Eliot touched his lover under the chin. “What is it?”

“Ah...the room adjoins my own.” 

Eliot allowed that revelation to marinate as Quentin’s dear brown eyes darted over his face, seeking approval or rejection. A bedroom adjoining the master, in a noble house…

“Quentin, have you given me the room that ought to be your wife’s?” 

Oh, yes. Quentin was quite flushed now. “Actually, the master bedroom has been traditionally occupied by the Viscountess.” He cleared his throat and continued with great aplomb. “So one could say I’ve given you the room that ought to be my husband’s.” 

What was Eliot to say to that? “Lord Coldwater, you’ve left me with no choice but to utterly and completely ravish you.” 

Quentin dragged his eyes up Eliot’s frame, and through three layers of silk and wool Eliot still felt it like a hot touch against his skin. With a helpless grin, Quentin offered Eliot his arm. “Then Mr. Waugh, may I escort you upstairs?” 

Eliot tucked his hand into Quentin’s elbow, never again to be parted. There would be time later for solemn vows and sweet nothings, when he had Quentin taken properly in hand on  _ Eliot’s  _ own bed. They now had all the time in the world to fall properly in love. 

“Beloved, you may.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farewell, dear readers! Until next time!


End file.
